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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

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http://archive.org/details/poet02mont 


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■■  iis  /////,  Aant/s  ///»•>/  Aii  Aeart." 


POETICAL  WORKS 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


Memoir  of  tl)c  2Uitljor, 

BY 

THE  REV.  RUFUS  W.   GRISWOLD. 

IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 

VOL.   II. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

JOHN  BALL,  No.  48  NORTH  FOURTH  ST. 

Stereotyped  by  L.  Johnson  &  Co. 
MDCOCXLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  is  15,  by 

SORIN    &   BALL, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS 

OF 

THE     SECOND     VOLUME. 


THOUGHTS  ON  WHEELS. 

Page 

No.  I.— The  Combat 13 

No.  II. — The  Car  of  Juggernaut 14 

No.  III. — The  Inquisition 15 

No.  IV.— The  State  Lottery 17 

No.  V.— To  Britain 25 


III.        . 
IV.— No.  1 
IV.— No.  2 
VIII. 


THE  CLIMBING  BOY'S  SOLILOQUIES. 

Prologue. — A  Word  with  Myself 

No.  I. — The  Complaint 

No.  II.— The  Dream 

No.  III.— Easter-Monday  at  Sheffield 

SONGS  OF  ZION,  BEING  IMITATIONS  OF  THE 
PSALMS. 
Psalm  I. 

Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 

Psalm 
Psalm 
Psalm 

Psalm 
Psalm 


XI. 
XV. 

XIX.— No.  1 
XIX— No.  2 
XX.      . 


XXIII.      . 
XXIV.— No.  1 
XXIV.— No.  2 
XXIV.— No.  1. 
XXIV.— No.  2. 
XXVII.— No.  1 
XXVII —No.  2 
XXIX. 
XXX. 

XXXIX.       . 
XML— No.  1 
XLII—  No.  2 
XLIIL— No.3 
XLVI.— No.  1 


(The  Second  Version.) 
(The  Second  Version.) 


31 

3:'. 
3:. 
11 


50 
51 
52 
52 
53 
53 
54 
55 
55 
56 
57 
58 
58 
59 
59 
GO 
61 
62 
62 
64 
65 
66 
66 
67 


I 

I    4 

CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    II. 

Psalm  XLVL— No 
Psalm  XLVII.    . 
Psalm  XLVIII. 

.2 

Page 

.     68 

69 

.     69 

Psalm  LI. 

70 

Psalm  LXIIL 

.     72 

Psalm  LXIX.      . 

72 

Psalm  LXX.    . 

.    73 

Psalm  LXXI.      . 

74 

Psalm  LXXIL 
Psalm  LXXIII.   . 

.     75 

Psalm  LXXVII. 

.     78 

Psalm  LXXX.     . 

80 

Psalm  LXXXIV. 
Psalm  XC.  . 

.     81 

Psalm  XCI.    . 

.     83        1 

Psalm  XCIIL 

Psalm  XCV 

.    '     .     85 

Psalm  C. 

.  87     ; 

Psalm  CIII 

Psalm  CIV. 

Psalm  CVIL— No. 
Psalm  CVIL— No. 
Psalm  CVIL— No. 
Psalm  CVIL— No 
Psalm  CVIL— No. 
Psalm  CXIII 

1 

3 

5 

.     91 
.     92 
.     94 

Psalm  CXVI 

.     95 

Psalm  CXVII 

96 

Psalm  CXXI 

.     97 

Psalm  CXXII.    . 

98 

Psalm  CXXIV. 
Psalm  CXXV.    . 

.     98 

Psalm  CXXVI 

.  100 

Psalm  CXXX 

Psalm  CXXXI. 

.  102 

Psalm  CXXXIL— 
Psalm  CXXXIL— 
Psalm  CXXXIII. 
Psalm  CXXXIV. 

No.  2 

.  103 
.  104 

Psalm  CXXXVII. 
Psalm  CXXXVIII 
Psalm  CXXXIX. 
Psalm  CXLI. 

.  105 

.  107 

Psalm  CXLII. 

Psalm  CXLIII. 

.  109 

Psalm  CXLV.     . 

Psalm  CXLVI. 

.  110 

Psalm  CXLVIII. 

CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    II. 


Page 
NARRATIVES. 

Farewell  to  War      .        .        .  , 1  ]  3 

Lord  Falkland's  Dream,     a.  d.  1643 11") 

The  Patriot's  Pass-word 125 

The  Voyage  of  the  Blind 128 

An  Every-Day  Tale 136 

A  Tale  without  a  Name II" 

A  Snake  in  the  Grass 154 

The  Cast-away  Ship 158 

The  Sequel 161 

TRIBUTARY  POEMS. 

To  the  Memory  of  the  late  Richard  Reynolds        .        .        .         .161 

I. — The  Death  of  the  Righteous 164 

II. — The  Memory  of  the  Just         .        .        .        .        .        .   165 

III. — A  Good  Man's  Monument 168 

To  the  Memory  of  Rowland  Hodgson,  Esq.,  of  Sheffield      .        .  171 
"  Occupy  till  I  come."     On  the  Death  of  the  late  Joseph  Butter- 
worth,  Esq 175 

In  Memory  of  the  Rev.  James  Harvey 177 

To  the  Memory  of  the  late  Joseph  Browne,  of  Lothersdale         .        179 
To  the  Memory  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Spencer,  of  Liverpool  .  181 

The  Christian  Soldier.     Occasioned  bv  the  sudden  Death  of  the 

Rev.  Thomas  Taylor        .         .  " 184 

A  Recollection  of  Mary  F 185 

In  Memory  of  E.  B.,  formerly  E.  R 186 

In  Memory  of  E.  G 187 

M.  S.     To  the  Memory  of  "  A  Female  whom  Sickness  had  Re- 
conciled to  the  Notes  of  Sorrow" 188 

On  the  Royal  Infant 193 

A  Mother's  Lament  on  the  Death  of  her  Infant  Daughter    .         .  194 
The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless 195 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Lyre 197 

Remonstrance  to  Winter 200 

Round  Love's  Elysian  Bowers 201 

Lines  written  under  a  Drawing  of  Yardley  Oak         .         .         .  202 
Written  for  a  Society  whose  Motto  was  "Friendship,  Love,  and 

Truth" 203 

Religion.     An  occasional  Hymn 204 

The  Joy  of  Grief 205 

The  Battle  of  Alexandria 207 

The  Pillow 211 

Ode  to  the  Volunteers  of  Britain 215 

The  Vigil  of  St.  Mark 218 

Hannah 223 

A  Field  Flower 

1* 


CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    II. 


Page 

The  Snow-drop 226 

An  Epitaph 229 

The  Ocean 230 

The  Common  Lot 235 

The  Harp  of  Sorrow 236 

Pope's  Willow 238 

A  Walk  in  Spring 241 

To  Agnes 245 

A  Deed  of  Darkness 246 

The  Dial 248 

Emblems 249 

A  Message  from  the  Moon 251 

A  Bridal  Benison 253 

The  Blackbird 254 

The  Myrtle 255 

A  Death-Bed 256 

Dale  Abbey 257 

In  Bereavement -  258 

Coronation  Ode  for  Queen  Victoria 259 

The  Wild  Pink,  on  the  Wall  of  Malmesbury  Abbey    .        .        .260 

Parting  Words 263 

The  Roses 264 

Elijah  in  the  Wilderness 265 

Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  the  late  Rev.  Thomas  Rawson  Taylor     .  269 

Christ  the  Purifier 270 

"  A  Certain  Disciple" 271 

The  Communion  of  Saints 272 

"  Perils  by  the  Heathen" 273 

A  Midnight  Thought 275 

The  Peak  Mountains 276 

To  Ann  and  Jane 281 

Transmigrations 282 

Chatterton 284 

A  Daughter  (C.  M.)to  her  Mother,  on  her  Birth-Day  .  .  .285 
On  Finding  the  Feathers  of  a  Linnet  scattered  on  the  Ground  .  288 
Occasional  Ode  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  Royal  British  System 

of  Education 290 

Departed  Days :  A  Rhapsody 291 

The  Bible 294 

The  Wild  Rose 295 

The  Time-Piece 298 

A  Mother's  Love 300 

The  Visible  Creation 302 

Reminiscences 303 

The  Reign  of  Spring 304 

The  Reign  of  Summer 307 

Instruction 316 

A  Night  in  a  Stage-Coach 3] 7 


CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    II. 


Page 
Incognita:  On  viewing  the  Picture  of  an  unknown  Lady      .         .  3:20 

Winter-Lightning 323 

The  Little  Cloud 324 

Abdallah  and  Sabat 329 

Questions  and  Answers 331 

The  Alps:  A  Reverie 335 

The  Bridal  and  the  Burial 339 

Youth  Renewed 340 

The  Daisy  in  India 341 

The  Pilgrim 343 

Robert  Bums 344 

The  Stranger  and  his  Friend 3 15 

Friends 347 

A  Theme  for  a  Poet 348 

Night 351 

Aspirations  of  Youth 353 

A  Hermitage 354 

Inscription  under  the  Picture  of  an  aged  Negro  Woman    .        .       355 

The  Adventure  of  a  Star 356 

On  Planting  a  Tulip-Root 359 

The  Drought.     Written  in  the  Summer  of  1826      ....  360 

The  Falling  Leaf 362 

Thoughts  and  Images 363 

The  Ages  of  Man 366 

The  Grave 367 

Bolehill  Trees 371 

The  Old  Man's  Song 373 

The  Glow- Worm 374 

The  Mole-Hill 375 

A  Voyage  Round  the  World 

Humility 387 

Birds 388 

The  Gentianella 396 

A  Lucid  Interval 397 

Worms  and  Flowers 399 

The  Recluse 400 

Time  :   A  Rhapsody 401 

To  a  Friend,  with  a  Copy  of  the  foregoing  Lucubration    .        .       403 

The  Retreat 404 

The  Lily.     To  a  Young  Lady,  E.  P 407 

The  Sky-Lark.     Addressed  to  a  Friend 408 

The  Fixed  Stars 409 

A  Cry  from  South  Africa.     On  building  a  Chapel  at  Cape  Town, 

for  the  Negro  Slaves  of  the  Colony,  in  1828  .         .         .410 

Speed  the  Prow 412 

The  Cholera  Mount.  Lines  on  the  Burying-Place  for  Patients 
who  died  of  Cholera  Morbus;  a  pleasant  Eminence  in 
Sheffield  Park 413 


CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    II. 


Page 

To  Mary 416 

Short-Hand.     Stanzas  addressed  to  E.  P 416 

To  my  Friend  George  Bennet,  Esq.,  of  Sheffield      .        .        .       417 
One  Warning  more.    Written  for  Distribution  on  a  Race- Course, 

1834 420 

A  Riddle.     Addressed  to  E.  R.  1820 421 

The  Tombs  of  the  Fathers 422 

The  Sun-Flower 426 

For  J.  S.     A  Preamble  to  her  Album 427 

To  Cynthia:  A  Young  Lady,  unknown  to  the  Author,  who,  by 
Letter,  requested  "  a  Stanza,"  or  "  a  few  Lines  in  his  Hand- 
writing"     428 

On  a  Watch-Pocket  worked  by  A.  L 429 

An  Infant's  Album 431 

To  Margaret;    a  little  Girl,  who  begged  to   have  some  Verses 

from  the  Author,  at  Scarborough,  in  1814    ....  433 

The  blank  Leaf 434 

The  Gnat.  Written  with  Pencil  round  an  Insect  of  that  kind, 
which  had  been  accidentally  crushed,  and  remained  fixed  on 

a  blank  Page  of  a  Lady's  Album 434 

Morna 435 

The  Valentine  Wreath   .        .        .        . 439 

The  Widow.     Written  at  the  Request  of  a  Lady,  who  furnished 

several  of  the  Lines  and  the  Plan  of  the  whole        .        .       440 
Motto  to  "  a  Poet's  Portfolio."    (Fragment  of  a  Page  of  Oblivion)  442 

At  Home  in  Heaven 443 

The  Veil 446 

Heaven  in  Prospect 446 

On  the  First  Leaf  of  Miss  J.'s  Album 447 

The  Sand  and  the  Rock 448 

"  Lovest  thou  Me" 451 

Garden  Thoughts.     On  Occasion  of  a  Christian  Assembly  in  the 
Grounds  of  a  Gentleman  at  York,  for  the  Purpose  of  pro- 
moting Missions  among  the  Heathen        ....       452 
To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  T,,  of  York,  with  the  foregoing  Stanzas    .        .  454 

The  Field  of  the  World 455 

Farewell  to  a  Missionary 456 

"  The   Prisoner  of  the  Lord."      A   Sabbath  Hymn  for  a  sick 

Chamber 457 

An  After-Thought 458 

Our  Saviour's  Prayers 459 

Reminiscence 4G2 

Evening  Time 463 

The  Lot  of  the  Righteous 464 

A  Benediction  for  a  Baby 466 

Evening  Song.     For  the  Sabbath-Day 467 

A  Wedding  Wish.     To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H .468 


THOUGHTS  ON  WHEELS. 


Dubing  the  greater  part  of  the  last  forty  years  it  has  been  my  privilege 
to  be  connected,  rather  as  an  auxiliary  than  a  principal,  in  many  a  plan  for 
lessening  the  sum  of  human  misery  at  home  and  abroad,  with  three  gen- 
tlemen of  this  neighbourhood,  Mr.  Samuel  Robebts,  Mr.  Geoboe  Bennet, 
and  Mr.  Rowland  Hodgson.  Of  the  two  latter  1  need  not  speak  here, 
because  proofs  of  my  esteem  for  each,  distinctly,  will  be  found  in  another 
part  of  this  collection.  With  Mr.  Roberts,  however,  it  happened,  that  I  have 
been  more  particularly  and  actively  concerned  on  occasions  rather  general 
than  local,  such  as  the  questions  of  the  Slave  Trade  and  Slavery,  the  State 
Lottery,  and  the  practice  of  employing  climbing  boys  to  sweep  chimneys.  In 
these,  the  zeal,  the  energy,  and  the  indefatigability  of  my  friend  far  surpassed 
any  corresponding  qualifications  which  1  could  exercise  in  aid  of  the  frequent 
causes  in  which  we  have  been  engaged  together.  Though,  like  Jehonadab's 
with  Jehu'*-,  my  iieart  was  always  with  his  heart,  it  was  not  in  every  enterprise 
that  I  had  the  courage  to  accept  his  invitation  to  "come  up  to  (him)  into  the 
chariot;*'  for  the  adversary's  watchmen,  descrj  niir  his  approach  from  their 
walls,  might  truly  exclaim,  "His  driving  is  like  the  driving  of  the  son  ofNimsbi, 
for  he  driveth  furiously."  When,  however,  I  could  not  do  this,  1  girded  myself 
up  to  run  alongside  of  him,  till  I  could  no  more  keep  pace  with  his  speed  :  I  then 
followed  him  as  far  as  my  breath  and  strength  would  carry  me.  Among  those 
who  know  him  best,  and  esteem  him  proportionable,  though  1  may  perhaps  call 
myself  the  foremost,— having,  more  than  any  other  individual,  had  opportunities 
of  understanding  his  motives,  and  judging  his  public  conduct  by  these.— I  must 
not  attempt,  in  this  place,  "to  give  him  honour  due,''  further  than  by  simply  re- 
cording my  own  obligations  to  him,  for  having,  by  his  intrepidity  and  example 
on  some  trying  occasions,  caused  me  to  do  a  little  less  harm,  and  a  little  more 
good  in  my  generation,  than  I  should  otherwise  have  had  forbearance  in  the 
one  case  to  avoid,  or  fortitude  in  tin;  other  to  undertake. 

This  influence  was  more  especially  ascendant  over  my  natural  indolence  and 
timidity,  in  our  joint  efforts  through  a  series  of  years  to  rouse  the  country,  and 
to  persuade  the  legislature  against  "the  State  Lottery"  as  a  system  of  legalized 
gambling,  and  "the  employment  of  climbing  boys  to  sweep  chimneys  as  a  sys- 
tem of  home-slavery." 

In  reference  to  the  former  I  may  here  state,  that  it  had  been  the  practice,  as 
long  as  I  can  remember,  for  the  publishers  of  newspapers  to  procure  lottery- 
tickets  for  persons  who  applied  for  them,  from  any  of  the  offices  with  which 
they  had  current  accounts  for  advertising. 

From  1791,  when  I  entered  upon  the  property  of  the  Sheffield  Iris,  till  1801  or 
1802,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  executing  such  commissions  to  a  very  small  amount 
annually.  I  know  not  what  lottery  speculations  may  have  been  made  other- 
wise in  this  neighbourhood  ;  hut  if  my  sales  were  the  standard  of  probabilities 
in  so  obscure  a  case,  little  of  the  money  that  was  got  upon  the  anvil  was  thrown 
into  the  fire,  for  the  purchase  of  blanks,  where  prizes  were  contemplated  in  re- 
version. 

Once,  however,  about  the  above-mentioned  date,  I  had  the  misfortune  to  sell 
the  sixteenth  of  a  ticket  which  turned  up  a  prize  of  twenty  thousand  pounds.  The 
price  to  be  paid  for  tile  share.  T  think,  was  23$,  6d.,  and  the  person  who  bespoke 
it  had  left  a  guinea  towards  payment,  as  the-  market  price  could  not  be  ascer- 
tained till  the  voucher  came  from  London.    Accordingly  I  received  it  with  a  few 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


Otbere  Which  had  been  ordered  iii  like  manner,  and  pledges  deposited.  Thesej 
with  the  exception  of  that  particular  one,  were  duly  fetched  by  the  parties  who 
had  In spoken  them.  In  those  days  the  registering  of  tickets  and  shares  was  en- 
tirely done  in  the  metropolitan  offices,  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  adven- 
turers being  transmitted  from  the  country  by  their  respective  correspondents. 
Whatever  then  might  be  the  fate  or  the  fortune  of  the  numbers  delivered  by  me, 
I  knew  nothing  of  the  event  unless  the  buyers  themselves  informed  me,  which 
they  usually  did  when  the  prizes  were  small  ones,  and  almost  as  usually  ex- 
changed them  for  new  ventures  in  the  current  or  next  lottery,  paying  the  differ- 
ence, which  was  necessarily  on  the  losing  side,  (the  schemes  being  ingeniously 
contrived  to  effect  that,)  till  a  blank  made  amends  for  all, — if  it  happened  to 
cure  the  lottery-fit,  though  that  kind  of  fever  being  intermittent,  patients  once 
affected  were  fearfully  liable  to  returns. 

In  the  case  above  mentioned,  the  share  remained  week  after  week  uncalled 
for  in  my  desk,  while  the  drawing  continued,  and  till  it  was  nearly  at  an  end. 
In  fact,  I  had  given  it  up  as  a  bad  speculation  of  my  own,  so  far  as  what  was  due 
upon  it  had  been  hazarded  to  a  stranger,  concluding  that  it  must  have  been 
drawn  a  blank,  and  that  my  customer  would  take  no  more  trouble  about  it.  I 
well  recollect  throwing  it  aside  among  some  indifferent  papers,  and  muttering  to 
myself, — "There  lies  half-a-crown."  One  evening,  however,  a  man  from  a  vil- 
lage in  Derbyshire  called  upon  me  in  considerable  agitation,  and  presented  an 
open  letter  addressed  to  a  female  in  whose  name  the  share  had  been  registered 
at  the  office  (Nicholson's)  in  London,  announcing  that  the  ticket  had  been 
drawn  a  prize  of  twenty  thousand  pounds,  with  a  hint,  that,  when  the  lady  re- 
ceived the  money,  it  was  hoped  she  would  remember  the  clerks  in  the  office. 
Till  then  the  said  lady  did  not  so  much  as  know  the  number  of  which  a  sixteenth 
had  been  thus  registered  to  her.  I  was  not  a  little  bewildered  myself  at  first, 
scarcely  remembering  when  I  had  last  seen  the  precious  scrap  of  paper ;  and, 
doubting  whether  the  intelligence  were  not  a  hoax,  and  whether  the  applicant, 
who  professed  himself  a  relation  of  the  owner,  were  a  true  man.  But,  having 
found  the  share,  and  ascertained  the  other  points,  I  delivered  it  into  the  messen- 
ger's hands,  and  received  the  small  balance  due  to  me  upon  it.  I  was  after- 
wards told,  that  the  guinea  which  had  been  paid  to  me  in  advance  was  put  into 
the  lottery  "for  luck's  sake,"  having  been  found  unexpectedly  in  a  paper  with 
some  sugar-candy,  in  a  neglected  drawer.  The  fortunate  recoverer  of  the  un- 
redeemed prize  that  had  fallen  to  her,  like  one  of  the  forgotten  things  which  the 
moon  has  been  said  to  contain, 

"  Where  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous  vases, 
And  beaux'  in  suuft'boxes  and  tweezer-cases," 

(Rape  of  the  Lock,  canto  v.) 
proved  to  be  a  very  respectable  matron  in  good  circumstances,  and  of  prudent 
habits.  Instead  of  eagerly  seizing  the  spoil  at  the  expense  of  the  small  discount, 
she  waited  till  the  money  was  full  due,  and  never  afterwards,  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned,  risked  more  than  the  price  of  another  sixteenth  at  once  in  a  lottery 
or  two  following. 

But  the  strangeness  of  this  great  eveut  in  provincial  lottery  annals  did  not  end 
here.  The  successful  ticket  had  been  distributed,  if  I  rightly  remember,  entirely 
in  sixteenths,  and  sold  in  different  parts  of  the  kingdom.  This  being  blazoned 
in  all  the  newspapers,  occasioned  an  extraordinary  demand  for  shares  in  the 
ensuing  lottery,  and  mine  being  deemed  "a  Lucky  Office,"  commissions  came 
pouring  upon  me  in  a  manner  and  multitude  beyond  precedent.  These  I  was 
enabled  to  supply  on  a  new  plan,  which,  I  confess,  I  thought  very  hazardous  to 
the  metropolitan  office  keepers,  who,  availing  themselves  of  this  "tide"  in  the 
sea  of  bubbles,  took  it  "  at  the  flood,"  not  doubting  that  it  would  "  lead  on  to  for- 
tune" in  their  "affairs."  Accordingly  they  appointed  agencies  throughout  the 
country,  and  one  of  these  being  offered  to  me  by  a  iirst-rate  house,  I  accepted  it 
as  a  mere  matter  of  business,  and  for  several  years  I  was  in  the  habit  of  dis- 


THOUGHTS    ON    W1I 


posing  from  twenty  to  fifty  times  as  many  tickets  and  shares  as  I  bad  ever  done 
before.  Besides  the  small  commission  on  the  amount  sold,  being  from  that  time 
allowed  the  perquisite  for  registering  the  numbers  myself,  and  communicating 

the  results  to  my  customers,  I  received  from  day  to  day  the  lists  of  the  draw- 
ings, and  became  practically  acquainted  with  the  risks  and  the  returns,— indeed 
so  well  acquainted,  that,  during  the  term  of  my  agency,  I  was  never  for  a  mo- 
ment tempted  to  hazard  a  shilling  on  a  turn  of  the  wheels  for  myself.  On  one 
occasion  only,  w  hen  the  drawing  \\  as  to  he  closed  on  an  early  day,  and  1  had  to 
send  back  to  my  principals  the  unsold  shares  in  my  hands,  I  retained  two-eighths 
in  expectation  of  having  calls  for  them  before  the  last  drawing.  One  was  sold] 
the  other  remained  with  me,  but  proving  a  small  pri/.e  I  escaped  comparatively 
unscathed. 

Now  of  all  the  thousands  in  every  variety  of  numbers  which  passed  through 
my  hands,  including  sold  and  returned,  I  do  not  recollect  more  than  three  shares 
of  prizes  above  25/.— namely,  two  of  50/.  and  a  third  of  120/. ;  the  former  dis- 
posed of,  the  latter  sent  back.  I  thought  at  first  that  the  rage  for  this  losing 
game  would  soon  abate  of  itself.  I  was  mistaken;  and  though  after  a  year  or 
two  it  was  less  prodigally  and  promiscuously,  yet  it  was  more  steadily  pursued 
by  regular  customers,  to  whom  the  habitual  stimulus  became,  as  necessary  to 
provoke  and  appease,  while  in  both  cases  it  mocked,  the  "auri  sacra  fames,"  as 
dram-drinking  and  opium-eating  are  to  diseased  appetites  of  another  kind.  In 
addition  to  these  perennials,  there  was  an  annual  succession  of  inexperienced 
votaries  of  wealth,  who  came  and  tried,  and  withdrew,  when  they  hid  grown 
wiser  or  warier  at  a  reasonable  cost.  And  here  I  must  observe  that  the  grosser 
evils  of  lotteries,  flagrant  as  they  were  in  the  metropolis,  came  not  within  my 
observation  here;  what  1  knew  personally  of  the  original  sin  of  the  system  was 
learned  by  its  ordinary  effects.  My  dealings  were  principally  with  persons  in 
moderate  circumstances,  yet  with  a  considerable  proportion  of  work-people  and 
Others  who  might  have  invested  their  small  savings  (if  savings  they  were)  on 
much  better  securities  than  the  notes  which  my  bank  issued.  It  was  one  of  the 
lame  pleas  for  the  State  Lottery  in  Parliament,  that  after  the  suppression  of  the 
infamous  insurance-offices — which  never  existed  here — there  remained  no  longer 
a  snare  to  tempt  the  poor  to  take  this  royal  way  to  riches,  the  lowest  fraction  of 
a  ticket  in  the  market  being  beyond  their  power  of  purchase.  Whatever  the 
case  might  be  in  London,  the  rich  in  this  neighbourhood,  if  they  speculated  at 
all,  did  not  come  to  me.  One  of  these,  a  friend  of  mine,  told  me  that  he  had 
obtained  an  eighth  of  a  20,000/.,  and  I  heard  of  another  who  was  said  to  have 
had  a  sixteenth  of  a  10,000/.  prize.  On  this  part  of  the  subject,  from  an  article  in 
my  newspaper  of  March  25,  lblT,  in  which  I  questioned  some  statements  made 
by  high  authorities  in  the  House  of  Commons,  I  may  quote  a  memorandum,  that, 
in  three  lotteries  drawn  in  1S03,  I  "sold,  Whole  Tickets — not  one;  Halves — one; 
Quarters — twenty;  Eighths — eighty-eight;  Sixteenths— five  hundred  and  sixty- 
six!  and  in  previous  years  far  greater  numbers  of  the  latter;  many,  very  many 
of  which  were  bought  by  poor  people." 

Familiarity  with  some  kinds  of  sin  deadens  the  consciousness  of  it.  This  was 
not  the  case  with  me  in  reference  to  the  State  Lottery.  It  was  familiarity  with 
it  which  convinced  me  of  the  sin  of  dealing  in  its  deceptive  wares.  I  was  occa- 
sionally surprised  to  notice  the  different  kinds  of  money  which  were  brought  to 
me  by  persons  of  the  humbler  class,— hoarded  guineas,  old  crowns,  half  crowns, 
and  fine  impressions  of  smaller  silver  coins,  at  a  time  when  bank-paper,  Spanish 
dollars,  and  tokens  of  inferior  standard,  issued  by  private  individuals  and  com- 
panies, formed  a  kind  of  mofr-currency  throughout  the  realm,  instead  of  the  ster- 
aes  of  the  Royal  Mint.  These,  like  the  guinea  of  my  Derbyshire  matron, 
were  ventured  "for  the  sake  of  luck,"  in  several  instance.-  by  poor  women  who 
had  inherited  them  from  their  parents,  received  them  as  birth  or  wedding-day 
gifts,  saved  them  for  their  children's  thrift-pots,  or  laid  them  up  against  a  rainy 
day  for  family  wants  or  sickness.     With  these  they  came  to  buy  hope,  and  I  sold 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


them  disappointment  l—H  was  this  very  thought  passing  through  nay  mind  like  a 
flash  of  lightning,  in  the  very  words,  and  leaving  an  indelible  impr 
t> i ii nir  with  every  recurrence  of  the  haunting  idea,)  which  decided  a  long-medi- 
tated luii  often  procrastinated  purpose  ;  and  I  said  to  myself,  at  length,  "  I  will 
immediately  give  up  this  traffic  of  delusion."  I  did  so,  and  from  that  moment 
never  Bold  another  share. 

This,  however,  was  only  cutting  off  the  left  hand  of  a  profitable  sin,  while 
with  the  right  I  was  still  accepting  the  hire  of  iniquity.  The  proprietors  of 
newspapers  do  not  deem  themselves  responsible  for  the  contents  of  advertise- 
ments which  appear  on  their  pages,  so  long  as  these  are  free  from  libellous,  im- 
moral, or  blasphemous  matter.  During  the  palmy  days  of  the  State  Lottery,  and 
even  when  it  began  to  fall  into  disrepute,  the  office  keepers  were  among  the 
most  liberal  contributors  of  such  precious  articles  to  the  public  journals.  The 
columns  of  mine  were  never  much  burdened  with  these  opima  spolia, — wealth 
won  without  labour  of  the  hands  or  the  brains,  gratuitously  bestowed,  collected 
at  little  risk,  and  small  additional  expense  in  the  economy  of  the  printing-office. 
Lottery  advertisements,  therefore,  formed  a  considerable  proportion  of  the  very 
moderate  amount  of  pecuniary  means,  by  which  I  was  enabled,  under  many  dis- 
advantages, some  local,  and  others  personal,  to  maintain  my  paper  at  all.  But 
when  my  friend  Mr.  Roberts  and  I,  several  years  after  my  relinquishment  of 
lottery  sales,  determined  to  attack  the  great  state  evil  itself,  with  open,  uncom- 
promising hostility,  I  felt  that  I  could  not  consistently,  nor  indeed  honestly,  sup- 
port him  in  his  plans  of  aggression,  while  I  was  an  actual  accessory  before  the 
fact  to  the  mischiefs  which  it  was  perpetrating  throughout  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  land,  and  especially,  so  far  as  I  was  implicated,  within  the  range  of  my 
editorial  influence.  The  question  had  long  troubled  me  in  secret;  but,  as  in  the 
former  case,  a  final  decision  upon  it  was  deferred,  till  my  friend  one  day  unex- 
pectedly attacked  me  with  a  recommendation  to  renounce  all  connection  with 
"the  accursed  thing,"  which  we  both  had  now  made  up  our  minds  to  hold  up  to 
public  abhorrence  and  reprobation.  The  counsel  was  hard  to  a  person  in  my 
circumstances:  conscience  and  cupidity  had  a  sharp  conflict ;  but  the  battle  was 
not  a  drawn  one  ;  the  better  principle  prevailed;  and  after  the  autumn  of  1816 
I  never  admitted  another  lottery  advertisement  into  my  paper.  Nor  did  I  ever, 
for  one  moment,  repent  the  sacrifice. 

From  that  time  till  the  abandonment  of  the  State  Lottery  by  government 
itself  in  1824,  Mr.  Roberts  and  I,  in  various  ways,  but  principally  by  paragraphs 
and  philippics  in  my  columns,  and  pamphlets  from  my  press,  waged  a  desultory 
warfare  with  those  ministers  of  the  day  and  their  supporters  in  Parliament  who 
persisted  in  employing  these  unhallowed  means  of  recruiting  the  revenue.  With 
the  late  Lord  Lyttelton  (then  Mr.  Lyttelton)  and  other  members  of  the  House  of 
Commons  who  held  the  same  sentiments  as  ourselves  on  the  subject,  we  had 
frequent  correspondence;  nor  did  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  (otherwise 
one  of  the  most  upright  and  conscientious  statesmen  of  the  age)  escape  the  an- 
noyance of  our  remonstrances  and  solicitations.  In  March,  1817,  we  promoted 
a  petition  to  Parliament  from  Sheffield  against  this  national  nuisance.  Whether 
this  example  was  followed  at  that  time  by  any  other  towns  I  do  not  remember. 
We  know,  however,  that  our  various  labours  were  not  altogether  in  vain, — but 
that  two  obscure  individuals  in  a  remote  part  of  the  kingdom,  by  strenuous  per- 
severance in  advocating  a  good  cause,  contributed  something  (however  little  it 
may  have  been)  towards  the  removal  of  the  greatest  plague  that  ever  infested 
the  country  in  the  shape  of  a  tax,  upon  the  poverty,  the  morals,  and  the  happi- 
ness of  the  people. 

In  1817,  Mr.  Roberts  published  The  State  Lottery,  a  Dream,  a  work  of  startling 
eccentricity  in  its  plan,  and  no  small  ingenuity  in  the  execution.  Its  frontis- 
piece, representing  A  Petty  State  Lottery  within  the  walls  of  Christ's  Hospital, 
in  which  not  the  drawers  only,  but  all  the  adventurers,  were  children  of  that 
venerable  establishment,  was  not  without  its  effect  in  abating  one  of  the  most 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


plausible  but  pernicious  exhibitions  at  Guildhall  and  elsewhere,  in  the  annual 
pantomime  of  The  Grain/  State  Lottery. 

My  Thoughts  on  Wheels  were  but  the  glimmering  tail  of  my  friend's  por- 
tentous comet.  The  latter,  having  long  ago  passed  its  perihelion,  is  no  more 
visible  in  tin;  literary  hemisphere;  and  the  former  would  have  disappeared  with 
it,  had  not  the  last  section,  the  address  To  Britain,  been  deemed  worthy  of  pre- 
servation by  judges  more  competent  to  decide  ujkmi  its  claims  than  the  public 
will  allow  an  author  to  be  in  his  own  case. 


October  20,  1810. 


NO.    I. THE    COMBAT. 


Of  old  when  fiery  warriors  met, 
(  >u  edge  of  steel  their  lives  were  set; 
Eye  watching-  eye,  shield  crossing  shield, 
Foot  wedged  to  foot,  they  fought  the  field, 
Dealt  and  withstood  as  many  strokes 
As  might  have  fell'd  two  forest-oaks, 
Till  one,  between  the  harness-joint, 
Felt  the  resistless  weapon's  point 
Quick  through  his  heart, — and  in  a  flood 
Pour'd  his  hot  spirit  with  his  blood. 

The  victor,  rising  from  the  blow 
That  laid  his  brave  assailant  low, 
Then  blush'd  not  from  his  height  to  bend, 
Foully  a  gallant  deed  to  end ; 
But  whirl'd  in  fetters  round  the  plain, 
Whirl'd  at  his  chariot  wheels,  the  slain  ; 
Beneath  the  silent  curse  of  eyes, 
That  look'd  for  vengeance  to  the  skies ; 
While  shame,  that  could  not  reach  the  dead, 
Pour'd  its  whole  vial  on  his  head. 

Who  falls  in  honourable  strife 
Surrenders  nothing  but  his  life  ; 
Who  basely  triumphs  casts  away 
The  glory  of  the  well-won  day  ; 
— Rather  than  feel  the  joy  he  feels, 
Commend  me  to  his  chariot  wheels. 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


NO.    II. THE    CAR    OF    JUGGERNAUT. 

On  plains  beneath  the  morning  star, 
Lo  !  Juggernaut's  stupendous  car ; 
So  high  and  menacing  its  size, 
The  Tower  of  Babel  seems  to  rise  ; 
Darkening  the  air,  its  shadow  spreads 
O'er  thrice  an  hundred  thousand  heads  ; 
Darkening  the  soul,  it  strikes  a  gloom, 
Dense  as  the  night  beyond  the  tomb. 
Full  in  mid-heaven,  when  mortal  eye 
Up  this  huge  fabric  climbs  the  sky, 
The  Idol  scowls,  in  dragon-pride, 
Like  Satan's  conscience  deified ; 
— Satan  himself  wrould  scorn  to  ape 
Divinity  in  such  a  shape. 

Breaking  the  billows  of  the  crowd, 
As  countless,  turbulent,  and  loud 
As  surges  on  the  windward  shore, 
That  madly  foam,  and  idly  roar ; 
Th'  unwieldy  wain  compels  its  course, 
Crushing  resistance  down  by  force  ; 
It  creaks,  and  groans,  and  grinds  along, 
Midst  shrieks  and  prayers, — midst  dance  and  song ; 
With  orgies  in  the  eye  of  noon, 
Such  as  would  turn  to  blood  the  moon ; 
Impieties  so  bold,  so  black, 
The  stars  to  shun  them  would  reel  back  ; 
And  secret  horrors,  which  the  Sun 
Would  put  on  sackcloth  to  see  done. 
Thrice  happy  they,  whose  headlong  souls, 
Where'er  th'  enormous  ruin  rolls, 
Cast  their  frail  bodies  on  the  stones, 
Pave  its  red  track  with  crashing  bones, 
And  pant  and  struggle  for  the  fate 
— To  die  beneath  the  sacred  weight. 

"  O  fools  and  mad  !"  your  Christians  cry  : 
Yet  wise,  methinks,  are  those  who  die : 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS.  15 

For  me, — if  Juggernaut  were  God, 
Rather  than  writhe  beneath  his  rod: 
Rather  than  live  his  devotee, 
And  bow  to  such  a  brute  the  knee  ; 
Rather  than  be  his  favourite  priest, 
Wallow  in  wantonness,  and  feast 
On  tears  and  blood,  on  groans  and  cries, 
The  fume  and  fat  of  sacrifice  ; 
Rather  than  share  his  love, — or  wrath  ; 
I'd  fling  my  carcass  in  his  path, 
And  almost  bless  his  name,  to  feel 
The  murdering  mercy  of  his  wheel. 


NO.   III. THE    INQUISITION. 

There  was  in  Christendom,  of  yore, 

— And  would  to  heaven  it  were  no  more  ! — 

There  ivas  an  Inquisition-Court, 

Where  priestcraft  made  the  demons  sport : 

— Priestcraft, — in  form  a  giant  monk, 

With  wine  of  Rome's  pollutions  drunk, 

Like  captive  Samson,  bound  and  blind, 

In  chains  and  darkness  of  the  mind, 

There  show'd  such  feats  of  strength  and  skill 

As  made  it  charity  to  kill, 

And  well  the  blow  of  death  might  pass 

For  what  he  call'd  it — coup  de  grace  ; 

While  in  his  little  hell  on  earth, 

The  foul  fiends  quaked  amidst  their  mirth  : — 

But  not  like  him,  who  to  the  skies 

Turn'd  the  dark  embers  of  his  eyes, 

(Where  lately  burn'd  a  fire  divine, 

Where  still  it  burn'd,  but  could  not  shine,) 

And  won  by  violence  of  prayer, 

(Hope's  dying  accents  in  despair,) 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


Power  to  demolish,  from  its  base, 

Dagon's  proud  fane,  on  Dagon's  race; 

Not  thus  like  Samson  ; — false  of  heart, 

The  tonsured  juggler  play'd  his  part, 

God's  law  in  God's  own  name  made  void, 

Men  for  their  Saviour's  sake  destroyed, 

Made  pure  religion  his  pretence 

To  rid  the  earth  of  innocence  ; 

While  Spirits  from  th'  infernal  flood 

Cool'd  their  parch'd  tongues  in  martyrs'  hlood, 

And  half  forgot  their  stings  and  flames 

In  conning,  at  those  hideous  games, 

Lessons, — which  he  who  taught  should  know 

How  well  they  had  been  learn'd  below. 

Among  the  engines  of  his  power 
Most  dreaded  in  the  trying  hour, 
When  impotent  were  fire  and  steel, 
All  but  almighty  was  the  Wheel, 
Whose  harrowing  revolution  wrung 
Confession  from  the  slowest  tongue  ; 
From  joints  unlock'd  made  secrets  start, 
Twined  with  the  cordage  of  the  heart ; 
From  muscles  in  convulsion  drew 
Knowledge  the  sufferer  never  knew  ; 
From  failing  flesh,  in  Nature's  spite, 
Brought  deeds  that  ne'er  were  done  to  light ; 
From  snapping  sinews  wrench'd  the  lie, 
That  gain'd  the  victim  leave  to  die  ; 
When  self-accused, — condemn'd  at  length, 
His  only  crime  was  want  of  strength ; 
From  holy  hands  with  joy  he  turn'd, 
And  kiss'd  the  stake  at  which  he  burn'd. 
But  from  the  man  of  soul  sublime, 
Who  lived  above  the  world  of  time, 
Fervent  in  faith,  in  conscience  clear, 
Who  knew  to  love, — but  not  to  fear  ; 
When  every  artifice  of  pain 
Was  wasted  on  his  limbs  in  vain, 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


And  baffled  cruelty  could  find 
No  hidden  passage  to  his  mind, 
The  Wheel  extorted  naught  in  death, 
Except — forgiveness,  and  his  breath. 

Such  a  victorious  death  to  die 
Were  prompt  translation  to  the  sky: 
— Yet  with  the  weakest,  I  would  meet 
Racks,  scourges,  flames,  and  count  them  sweet ; 
Nay,  might  I  choose,  I  would  not  'scape 
"The  question,"  put  in  any  shape, 
Rather  than  sit  in  judgment  there, 
Where  the  stern  bigot  fills  the  chair : 
— Rather  than  turn  his  torturing  Wheel, 
Give  me  its  utmost  stretch  to  feel. 


NO.   IV. THE    STATE    LOTTERY. 

Escaped  from  ancient  battle-field, 

Though  neither  with  nor  on  my  shield : 

Escaped — how  terrible  the  thought 

Even  of  escape  ! — from  Juggernaut ; 

Escaped  from  tenfold  worse  perdition 

In  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition  ; 

Oh  with  what  ecstasy  I  stand 

Once  more  on  Albion's  refuge-land  ! 

Oh  with  what  gratitude  I  bare 

My  bosom  to  that  island-air, 

Which  tyrants  gulp  and  cease  to  be, 

Which  slaves  inhale  and  slaves  are  free  ! 

For  though  the  wheels,  behind  my  back, 

Still  seem  to  rumble  in  my  track, 

Their  sound  is  music  on  the  breeze ; 

I  dare  them  all  to  cross  the  seas : 

— Nay,  should  they  reach  our  guarded  coast, 

Like  Pharaoh's  chariots  and  his  host, 


3* 


18  THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 

Monks,  Brahmins,  warriors,  sAvoln  and  dead, 
Axles  and  orbs  in  wrecks  were  spread. 

And  are  there  on  this  holy  ground 
No  wheels  to  trail  the  vanquish'd  found  ? 
None,  framed  the  living  bones  to  break, 
Or  rend  the  nerves  for  conscience-sake  ? 
No : — Britons  scorn  th'  unhallow'd  touch, 
They  will  not  use,  nor  suffer  such ; 
Alike  they  shun,  with  fearless  heart, 
The  victim's  and  tormentor's  part. 

Yet  here  are  wheels  of  feller  kind, 
To  drag  in  chains  the  captive  mind  ; 
To  crush,  beneath  their  horrid  load, 
Hearts  panting  prostrate  on  the  road  ; 
To  wind  desire  from  spoke  to  spoke, 
And  break  the  spirit  stroke  by  stroke. 

Where  Gog  and  Magog,  London's  pride, 
O'er  city  bankruptcies  preside  ; 
Stone-blind  at  nisi  prius  sit, 
Hearken  stone-deaf  to  lawyers'  wit ; 
Or  scowl  on  men,  that  play  the  beasts 
At  Common  Halls  and  Lord  Mayors'  feasts, 
When  venison  or  the  public  cause, 
Taxes  or  turtle,  stretch  their  jaws  : 
There, — in  a  whisper  be  it  said, 
Lest  honest  Beckford  shake  his  head ; 
Lest  Chatham,  with  indignant  cheek, 
Start  from  his  pedestal  and  speak  ; 
Lest  Chatham's  son  in  marble  groan, 
As  if  restored  to  skin  and  bone  ;* 
There, — speak, — speak  out, — abandon  fear  ; 
Let  both  the  dead  and  living  hear  ; 
— The  dead,  that  they  may  blush  for  shame 
Amidst  their  monumental  fame  ; 
— The  living,  that,  forewam'd  of  fate, 
Conscience  may  force  them,  ere  too  late, 

*  These  lines  refer  to  the  statues  of  British  worthies  which  adorn  the  Guild- 
hall of  London. 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


Those  Wheels  of  infamy  to  shun, 
Which  thousands  touch,  and  are  undone. 

There, — built  by  legislative  hands, 
On  Christian  ground,  an  altar  stands. 
— "  Stands  ?  gentle  Poet,  tell  me  where  ?" 
Go  to  Guildhall :— "  It  stands  not  there!" 
True  ; — 'tis  my  brain  that  raves  and  reels 
Whene'er  it  turns  on  Lottery  Wheels  ; 
Such  things  in  youth  can  I  recall 
Nor  think  of  thee, — of  thee,  Guildhall  ? 
Where  erst  I  play'd  with  glittering  schemes, 
And  lay  entranced  in  golden  dreams  ; 
Bright  round  my  head  those  bubbles  broke, 
Poorer  from  every  dream  I  woke  ; 
Wealth  came, — but  not  the  wealth  I  sought ; 
Wisdom  was  wealth  to  me ;  and  taught 
My  feet  to  miss  thy  gates, — that  lay, 
Like  toll-bars  on  the  old  "broad  way," 
Where  pilgrims  paid, — oh  grief  to  tell  ! 
Tribute  for  going  down  to  hell. 

Long  on  thy  floor  an  altar  stood, 
To  human  view  unstain'd  with  blood, 
But  red  and  foul  in  Heaven's  pure  eyes, 
Groaning  with  infant  sacrifice, 
From  year  to  year  ; — till  sense  or  shame, 
Or  some  strange  cause  without  a  name, 
— 'Twas  not  the  cry  of  innocence, — 
Drove  such  abomination  thence  : 
Thence  drove  it, — but  destroy'd  it  not ; 
It  blackens  some  obscurer  spot ; 
Obscurer, — yet  so  well  denned, 
Thither  the  blind  might  lead  the  blind, 
While  heralds  shout  in  every  car, 
"This  is  the  temple, — worship  here." 
Thither  the  deaf  may  read  their  way  ; 
'Tis  plain; — to  find  it,  go  astray! 
Thither  the  lame,  on  wings  of  paper, 
May  come  to  nothing,  like  a  vapour  ; 


20  THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 

Thither  may  all  the  world  repair; 
A  word,  a  wish,  will  waft  you  there; 
And,  O  so  smooth  and  steep  the  track, 
'Tis  worth  your  life  to  venture  back ; 
Easy  the  step  to  Cooper's  Hull,* 
As  headlong  from  a  cliff  to  fall ; 
Hard  to  recover  from  the  shock, 
As  broken-limb'd  to  climb  a  rock. 

There.,  built  by  legislative  hands, 
Our  country's  shame,  an  altar  stands ; 
Not  votive  brass,  nor  hallow'd  stone, 
Humbly  inscribed — "  To  God  unknown  ;" 
Though  sure,  if  earth  afford  a  space 
For  such  an  altar,  here's  the  place  : 
— Not  breathing  incense  in  a  shrine, 
Where  human  art  appears  divine, 
And  man  by  his  own  skill  hath  wrought 
So  bright  an  image  of  his  thought, 
That  nations,  barbarous  or  refined, 
Might  worship  there  th'  immortal  mind, 
That  gave  their  ravish'd  eyes  to  see 
A  meteor  glimpse  of  Deity  ; 
A  ray  of  Nature's  purest  light, 
Shot  through  the  gulf  of  Pagan  night, 
Dazzling, — but  leaving  darkness  more 
Profoundly  blinding  than  before. 
— Ah  !  no  such  power  of  genius  calls 
Sublime  devotion  to  these  walls  ; 
No  pomp  of  art,  surpassing  praise, 
Britannia's  altar  here  displays  : 
A  money-changer's  table, — spread 
With  hieroglyphics,  black  and  red. 
Exhibits,  on  deceitful  scrolls, 
"  The  price  of  Tickets," — and  of  Souls  ; 
For  thus  are  Souls  to  market  brought, 
*         Barter'd  for  vanity, — for  naught ; 

*  Where  the  State  Lottery  was  drawn  for  many  years. 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


Till  the  poor  venders  find  the  cost, 
— Time  to  eternal  ages  lost ! 

No  sculptured  idol  decks  the  place, 
Of  such  excelling  form  and  face, 
That  Grecian  pride  might  feign  its  birth 
A  statue  fallen  from  heaven  to  earth: 
The  goddess  here  is  best  design'd, 
— A  flimsy  harlot,  bold  and  blind  ; 
Invisible  to  standers-by, 
And  yet  in  everybody's  eye  ! 
Fortune  her  name  ; — a  gay  deceiver. 
Cheat  as  she  may,  the  crowd  believe  her; 
And  she,  abuse  her  as  they  will, 
Showers  on  the  crowd  her  favours  still : 
For  'tis  the  bliss  of  both  to  be 
Themselves  unseen,  and  not  to  see  ; 
Had  she  discernment, — pride  would  scout 
The  homage  of  her  motley  rout ; 
Were  she  reveal'd, — the  poorest  slave 
Would  blush  to  be  her  luckiest  knave. 

Not  good  old  fortune  here  we  scorn, 
In  classic  fable  heavenly  born ; 
She  who  for  nothing  deigns  to  deal 
Her  blanks  and  prizes  from  One  Wheel ; 
And  who,  like  Justice,  wisely  blind, 
Scatters  her  bounties  on  mankind 
With  such  a  broad  impartial  aim, 
If  none  will  praise  her,  none  should  blame  ; 
For  were  ten  thousand  fancies  tried, 
Wealth  more  discreetly  to  divide 
Among  the  craving  race  of  man, 
Wit  could  not  frame  a  happier  plan. 

.  'tis  her  Counterfeit,  who  reigns 
O'er  haunted  heads  and  moon-struck  brains 
A  Two-wheeVd  Jade,  admired  by  sots, 
Who  flings,  for  cash  in  hand,  her  lots 
To  those,  who,  fain  "  their  luck  to  try," 
Sell  Hope,  and  Disappointment  buy. 


22  THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 

The  wily  sorceress  here  reveals, 

With  proud  parade,  her  mystic  Wheels; 

— Those  Wheels,  on  which  the  nation  runs 

Over  the  morals  of  its  Sons  ; 

— Those  Wheels,  at  which  the  nation  draws 

Through  shouting  streets  its  broken  laws  ! 

Engines  of  plotting  Fortune's  skill 

To  lure,  entangle,  torture,  kill. 

Behold  her,  in  imperial  pride, 

King,  Lords,  and  Commons  at  her  side ; 

Arm'd  with  authority  of  state, 

The  public  peace  to  violate  ; 

More  might  be  told, — but  not  by  me 

Must  this  "eternal  blazon"  be. 

Between  her  Wheels  the  Phantom  stands, 

With  Syren  voice,  and  Harpy  hands : 

She  turns  th'  enchanted  axle  round  ; 

Forth  leaps  the  "twenty  thousand  pound  !" 

That  "  twenty  thousand"  one  has  got ; 

But  twenty  thousand  more  have  not. 

These  curse  her  to  her  face,  deplore 

Their  loss,  then — take  her  word  once  more ; 

Once  more  deceived,  they  rise  like  men 

Bravely  resolved — to  try  again  ; 

Again  they  fail ; — again  trapann'd, 

She  mocks  them  with  her  sleight  of  hand ; 

Still  fired  with  rage,  with  avarice  steel'd, 

Perish  they  may,  but  never  yield ; 

They  woo  her  till  their  latest  breath, 

Then  snatch  their  prize — a  blank  in  death. 

The  priests,  that  in  her  temple  wait, 
Her  minor  ministers  of  fate, 
Like  Dian's  silversmith's  of  old, 
True  to  the  craft  that  brings  them  gold, 
Lungs,  limbs,  and  pens  unwearied  ply 
To  puff  their  Goddess  to  the  sky  ; 
Oh  that  their  puffs  could  fix  Her  there, 
Who  builds  such  castles  in  the  air, 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS.  23 


And  in  the  malice  of  her  mirth 

Lets  them  to  simpletons  on  earth  ! 

— Who  steals  the  rainbow's  peaceful  form, 

But  is  the  demon  of  the  storm  ; 

— Assumes  a  star's  benignant  mien, 

But  wears  a  comet's  tail  unseen ; 

—  Who  smiles  a  Juno  to  the  crowd, 

But  all  that  win  her  catch  a  cloud, 

And,  doom'd  Ixion's  fate  to  feel, 

Are  whirl'd  upon  a  giddier  wheel. 

—Oh  that  her  priests  could  fix  her  there, 

Whose  breath  and  being  are  but  air ! 

Yet  not  for  this  their  spells  they  try, 

Tiny  bawl  to  keep  her  from  the  sky, 

A  harmless  meteor  in  that  sphere  ; 

A  baleful  Ignis  fatuus  here, 

With  wandering  and  bewildering  light, 

To  cheer,  and  then  confound  the  sight, 

Guide  the  lone  traveller, — then  betray, 

Where  Death  in  ambush  lurks  for  prey. 

Fierce,  but  familiar,  at  their  call, 
The  veriest  fiend  of  Satan's  fall ; 
— The  fiend  that  tempted  him  to  stake 
Heaven's  bliss  against  the  burning  lake  ; 
— The  fiend  that  tempted  him  again, 
To  burst  the  darkness  of  his  den, 
And  risk  whate'er  of  wrath  untried 
Eternal  justice  yet  could  hide, 
For  one  transcendent  chance,  by  sin, 
Man  and  his  new-made  world  to  win  ; 
— That  fiend,  while  Satan  play'd  his  part 
At  Eve's  fond  ear,  assail'd  her  heart, 
And  tempted  her  to  hazard  more 
Than  fallen  Angels  lost  before  ; 
They  ruin'd  hm  themselves — her  crime 
Brought  death  on  all  the  race  of  time  : 
— That  fiend  comes  forth,  like1  Jjua's  flame  ; 
The  spirit  of  gambling  call  his  name  : 


21  THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 

So  flush'd  and  terrible  in  power, 

The  Priests  themselves  he  would  devour; 

But  straight,  by  Act  of  Parliament, 

Loose  through  the  land  his  plagues  are  sent. 

The  Polypus  himself  divides, 

A  legion  issues  from  his  sides ; 

Ten  thousand  shapes  he  wears  at  will, 

In  every  shape  a  devil  still ; 

Eager  and  restless  to  be  known 

By  any  mark,  except  his  own  ; 

In  airy,  earthly,  heavenly  guise, 

No  matter, — if  it  strike  the  eyes  ; 

Yet  ever  at  the  clink  of  pelf, 

He  starts,  and  shrinks  into  himself: 

— A  traitor  now,  with  face  of  truth, 

He  dupes  the  innocence  of  youth ; 

A  shrewd  pretender,  smooth  and  sage, 

He  tempts  the  avarice  of  age  ; 

A  wizard,  versed  in  damned  arts, 

He  trammels  uncorrupted  hearts  ; 

He  lulls  Suspicion,  Sense  waylays, 

Honour  and  Honesty  betrays, 

Finds  Virtue  sleeping,  and  by  stealth 

Beguiles  her  with  a  dream  of  wealth  ; 

Till  rich  and  poor,  till  fools  and  wise, 

Haste  to  the  headlong  sacrifice, 

Gaze  till  they  slip  into  the  snare  ; 

— Angels  might  weep  to  see  them  there  ; 

Then  to  the  Lottery  Wheels  away, 

The  spirit  of  gambling  drags  his  prey. 

Hail  to  the  fiery  bigot's  rack  ! 
Hail  Juggernaut's  destructive  track  ! 
Hail  to  the  warrior's  iron  car ! 
But  oh,  be  Lottery  Wheels  afar  ! 
I'll  die  by  torture,  war,  disease, 
I'll  die — by  any  Wheels  but  these  ! 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS.  25 


NO.    V. TO    BRITAIN. 


I  love  Thee,  O  my  native  Isle  ! 
Dear  as  my  mother's  earliest  smile ; 
Sweet  as  my  father's  voice  to  me 
Is  all  I  hear,  and  all  I  see, 
When,  glancing  o'er  thy  beauteous  land, 
In  new  thy  Public  Virtues  stand, 
The  Guardian-angels  of  thy  coast, 
Who  watch  the  dear  domestic  Host, 
The  Heart's  Affections,  pleased  to  roam 
Around  the  quiet  heaven  of  Home. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  mark  thy  soil 
Flourish  beneath  the  peasant's  toil, 
And  from  its  lap  of  verdure  throw 
Treasures  which  neither  Indies  know. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  hear  around 
Thy  looms,  and  wheels,  and  anvils  sound, 
Thine  engines  heaving  all  their  force, 
Thy  waters  labouring  on  their  course, 
And  arts,  and  industry,  and  wealth 
Exulting  in  the  joys  of  health. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  trace  thy  tale 
To  the  dim  point  where  records  fail ; 
Thy  deeds  of  old  renown  inspire 
My  bosom  with  our  fathers'  fire  ; 
A  proud  inheritance  I  claim 
In  all  their  sufferings,  all  their  fame  ; 
Nor  less  delighted,  when  I  stray 
Down  History's  lengthening,  widening  way, 
And  hail  Thee  in  thy  present  hour, 
From  the  meridian  arch  of  power, 
Shedding  the  lustre  of  thy  reign, 
Like  sunshine,  over  land  and  main. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  read  the  lays 
Of  British  bards,  in  elder  days, 
Till,  rapt  on  visionary  wi 
High  o'er  thy  cliffs  my  spirit  sings  ; 


26  THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 

For  I,  amidst  thy  living  choir, 
I,  too,  can  touch  the  sacred  lyre. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  contemplate 
The  full-orb'd  grandeur  of  thy  state  ; 
Thy  laws  and  liberties,  that  rise, 
Man's  noblest  works  beneath  the  skies, 
To  which  the  Pyramids  are  tame, 
And  Grecian  temples  bow  their  fame  : 
These,  thine  immortal  sages  wrought 
Out  of  the  deepest  mines  of  thought ; 
These,  on  the  scaffold,  in  the  field, 
Thy  warriors  won,  thy  patriots  seal'd ; 
These,  at  the  parricidal  pyre, 
Thy  martyrs  sanctified  in  fire, 
And,  with  the  generous  blood  they  spilt, 
Wash'd  from  thy  soil  their  murderers'  guilt, 
Cancell'd  the  curse  which  Vengeance  sped, 
And  left  a  blessing  in  its  stead. 
Can  words,  can  numbers  count  the  price, 
Paid  for  this  little  Paradise  ? 
Never,  oh  !  never  be  it  lost ; 
The  land  is  worth  the  price  it  cost. 

I  love  Thee, — when  thy  Sabbath  dawns 
O'er  woods  and  mountains,  dales  and  lawns, 
And  streams,  that  sparkle  while  they  run, 
As  if  their  fountain  were  the  Sun  : 
When,  hand  in  hand  thy  tribes  repair, 
Each  to  their  chosen  house  of  prayer, 
And  all  in  peace  and  freedom  call 
On  Him  who  is  the  Lord  of  all. 

I  love  Thee, — when  my  soul  can  feel 
The  seraph-ardours  of  thy  zeal : 
Thy  charities,  to  none  confined, 
Bless,  like  the  sun,  the  rain,  the  wind  ; 
Thy  schools  the  human  brute  shall  raise, 
Guide  erring  youth  in  wisdom's  ways, 
And  leave,  when  we  are  turn'd  to  dust, 
A  generation  of  the  just. 


THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 


I  love  Thee, — when  I  see  thee  stand 
The  hope  of  every  other  land  ; 
A  sea-mark  in  the  tide  of  time, 
Rearing  to  heaven  thy  brow  sublime  ; 
Whence  beams  of  Gospel-splendour  shed 
A  sacred  halo  round  thine  head ; 
And  Gentiles  from  afar  behold 
(Not  as  on  Sinai's  rocks  of  old) 
God, — from  eternity  conceal'd, — 
In  his  own  light,  on  Thee  reveal'd. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  hear  thy  voice 
Bid  a  despairing  world  rejoice, 
And  loud  from  shore  to  shore  proclaim, 
In  every  tongue,  Messiah's  name  ; 
That  name,  at  which,  from  sea  to  sea, 
All  nations  yet  shall  bow  the  knee. 

I  love  Thee  : — next  to  heaven  above, 
Land  of  my  fathers  !  thee  I  love  ; 
And,  rail  thy  slanderers  as  they  will, 
-  With  ail  thy  faults  I  love  Thee"  still: 
For  faults  thou  hast,  of  heinous  size ; 
Repent,  renounce  them,  ere  they  rise 
In  judgment ; — lest  thine  ocean-wall 
With  boundless  ruin  round  thee  fall, 
And  that,  which  was  thy  mightiest  stay, 
Sweep  all  thy  rocks  like  sand  away. 

Yes,  thou  hast  faults  of  heinous  size, 
From  which  I  turn  with  weeping  eyes  ; 
On  these  let  them  that  hate  Thee  dwell : 
Yet  one  I  spare  not, — one  I  tell, 
Tell  with  a  whisper  in  thine  ear ; 
Oh !  might  it  wring  thy  heart  with  fear  ! 
Oh  !  that  my  weakest  word  might  roll, 
Like  heaven's  own  thunder,  through  thy  soul ! 

There  is  a  lie  in  thy  right  hand ; 
A  bribe,  corrupting  all  the  land  ; 
There  is  within  thy  gates  a  pest, 
— Gold  and  a  Babylonish  vest ; 


28  THOUGHTS    ON    WHEELS. 

Not  hid  in  shame-concealing  shade, 
But  broad  against  the  sun  display'd. 

Those. — tell  it  not, — it  must  be  told; 

These  from  thy  Lottery  Wheels  are  sold  ; 

Sold, — and  thy  children,  train'd  to  sin, 

Hazard  both  worlds  these  plagues  to  win  ; 

Nay,  thy  deluded  statesmen  stake 

Thyself, — and  lose  Thee  for  their  sale  ! 

' — Lose  Thee  ? — They  shall  not ; — HE,  whose  will 

Is  Nature's  law,  preserves  Thee  still ; 

And  while  th'  uplifted  bolt  impends, 

One  warning  more  his  mere}'  sends. 

O  Britain  !  O  my  country  !  bring 
Forth  from  thy  camp  th'  accursed  thing ; 
Consign  it  to  remorseless  lire  ; 
Watch  till  the  latest  spark  expire, 
Then  cast  the  ashes  on  the  wind, 
Nor  leave  one  atom-wreck  behind. 

So  may  thy  wealth  and  power  increase  ; 
So  may  thy  people  dwell  in  peace  ; 
On  Thee  th'  Almighty's  glory  1 1 
And  all  the  world  in  Thee  be  blest. 

Sheffithi,  Oct.  10,  1810. 


THE  CLIMBING  BOY'S  SOLILOQUIES. 


In  the  summer  of  1S07,  a  local  association  for  the  purpose  of  "superseding  the 
employment  of  Climbing  Boys  in  sweeping  chimneys,  and  bettering  the  condi- 
tion of  those  who  were  already  so  engaged,"  was  established  in  Sheffield. 
Through  three-and-thirty  years,  that  object  has  been  kept  in  view,  though  many 
and  long  interruptions  have  crippled  or  retarded  our  active  exertions  towards 
the  desired  accomplishment.  But  our  interest  in  the  subject,  and  our  sympathy 
towards  the  infantine  and  juvenile  victims  of  so  unnatural  a  practice,  have  been 
periodically  quickened,  on  every  return  of  Easter  Monday,  when  a  good  dinner 
has  been  given  by  our  small  Committee  to  all  the  Climbing  Children  of  this  dis- 
trict. The  change, — which  this  attention  to  their  welfare  has  gradually  occa- 
sioned in  the  personal  appearance,  decent  behaviour,  and  improved  intelligence 
(most  of  them  having  been  Sunday  scholars)  of  the  successive  generations  of 
these  poor  creatures,  which  have  passed  before  us  during  that  period, — has  been 
very  creditable  to  their  Masters  and  very  encouraging  to  ourselves  under  the 
disheartening  hinderances  to  our  progress,  in  attempting  otherwise  to  lessen  the 
evils  of  the  occupation  in  our  own  neighbourhood,  and  the  repeated  failures  of 
our  endeavours  to  obtain  legislative  redress  for  the  grievance  itself  throughout 
the  whole  kingdom. 

The  experience  of  ten  years  convinced  us,  that  all  efforts  as  well  as  plans  ma- 
terially and  permanently  to  benefit  this  class  of  boys  must  be  unavailing,  be- 
cause so  long  as  the  employment  was  authorized  by  the  legislature,  it  would 
never  be  superseded  by  the  introduction  of  mechanical  apparatus: — it  being  the 
interest,  or  rather  the  practice,  of  the  masters,  as  much  as  possible,  to  disgust 
their  customers,  by  wilfully  negligent,  or  slovenly  mismanagement  of  such  sub- 
stitutes when  required  to  use  them.  This  repugnance  arose  principally  from  a 
desire  to  spare  themselves,  and  lay  upon  their  apprentices  (who  were  often  their 
own  children)  the  labour  and  torture  of  a  villanous  trade,  which  cannot  be 
taught  without  cruelty,  learnt  without  suffering,  or  practised  without  peril  to 
life  and  limb,  under  the  most  humane  master,  and  by  the  most  obedient  scholar. 
This  fact  is  the  unanswerable  objection  to  the  whole  system, — it  cannot  be 
mended,  though  its  inevitable  miseries  may  be,  and  are,  in  numberless  instances, 
frightfully  aggravated. 

Wherefore,  in  March,  1817,  we  roused  our  townspeople  to  set  the  first  exam- 
ple of  moving  the  legislature  against  this  sin  of  the  nation.  A  public  meeting 
was  accordingly  held,  am!  a  petition  adopted,  earnestly  imploring  the  House  of 
Commons,  to  whom  it  was  primarily  addressed,  to  take  the  subject  into  early 
and  serious  consideration.  This  was  presented  by  Lord  Milton,  (now  Earl  Fitz- 
william,)  one  of  the  representatives  for  Yorkshire,  with  a  view  merely  of  its 
being  received  and  laid  upon  the  table;  for  no  expectation  was  entertained  of 
any  immediate  steps  being  taken  upon  it  by  those  to  whom  we  appealed. 
Though  temperately  worded,  and  supported  only  by  a  few  frank  and  plain  ex- 
pressions of  his  own  kind  disposition  towards  the  suffering  children,  the  reading 
of  this  document  produced  so  happy  an  impression  upon  the  minds  of  the  mem- 
bers present,  that  his  Lordship,  availing  himself  of  the  propitious  omen,  imme- 
diately moved  for  the  appointment  of  a  Committee  to  investigate  the  subject 
and  report  on  the  same.  Meanwhile  similar  petitions  coming  in  from  other 
quarters,  and  the  result  of  the  Committee's  inquiries  proving  highly  satisfac- 
tory,— the  Metropolitan  Society,  (instituted  in  1S03,  for  the  same  benevolent  pur- 
poses as  ours  at  a  later  period.)  using  their  utmost  zeal  and  diligence  to  promote 

3*  29 


so 


the  object,— on  the  25th  of  June  following  a  Bill  was  brought  into  the  House  of 
C( nons,  for  prohibiting  the  euaploymenl  of  Climbing  Boy  a  in  aweeping  chim- 
neys, from  as  !)riof  a  prospective  date  aa  should  be  found  practicable  und 
ing  i  ircumstancea.  Certain  technical  difficulties,  however,  respecting  the  nature 
of  the  Bill,  and  the  probability  of  Parliament  being  prorogued  before  an  Act  could 
be  passed,  caused  the  postponement  of  further  proceedings  till  the  next  Session. 

In  the  following  year,  1818,  the  Bill  was  revived,  carried  triumphantly  through 
the  (''Minions,  sent  up  to  the  Lords,  read,  committed,  counsel  heard,  evidence 
examined,  favourably  reported,  but  withdrawn  before  the  third  reading,  to  give 
to  the  government  surveyors,  and  other  professional  gentlemen,  opportunity  to 
make  certain  experiments  and  estimates,  recommended  by  their  Lordships' 
Committee,  previous  to  their  ultimate  decision  on  the  merits  of  the  case. 

In  the  third  year,  1819,  the  Bill  was  again  introduced  in  the  House  of  Peers, 
when,  after  some  very  strange  discussion,  it  was  summarily  thrown  out.  Two 
causes,  exceedingly  dissimilar,  concurred  to  effect  this  catastrophe:  namely, 
certain  grave  doubts,  expressed  by  high  legal  authority,  whether,  in  making 
laws,  more  tenderness  were  due  to  old  chimneys  or  to  young  children  ; — the  for- 
mer being  inveterately  crooked  and  therefore  incurable,  whereas  (though  this 
was  left  to  be  inferred)  the  latter  (the  children)  might  easily  be  made  crooked, 
by  accommodating  their  pliable  bodies  to  t lie  perverse  ways  through  which  they 
followed  their  craft.  The  second  stumbling-block,  on  which  indeed  the  neck 
of  the  Bill  was  broken,  deserves  more  distinct  exposure.  A  noble  Earl,  who  re- 
sisted the  Bill  less  by  argument  than  by  banter,  among  other  illustrations  of  the 
calamities  which  would  befall  the  nation,  if  the  use  of  Climbing  Boys  were 
abolished,  is  reported  to  have  said  : — "I  might  illustrate  the  confined  humanity 
of  the  supporters  of  ttiis  measure,  by  repealing  a  story,  commonly  told  in  Ireland. 
It  was  usual  in  that  country  to  sweep  chimneys  by  tying  a  string  to  the  leg  of  a 
goose,  and  dragging  the  unfortunate  bird  down  the  chimney.  This  practice  was 
reprobated  by  many  humane  persons,  who  looked  upon  the  goose  as  very  ill 
treated;  but  an  honest  Irishman  having  asked  what  he  should  use  instead  of 
the  goose,  one  of  the  humane  gentlemen  replied,  '  Why  don't  you  get  a  couple  of 
ducks?' — Such  was  the  humanity  that  dictated  this  measure,  which,  dwelling 
on  the  sufferings  of  the  Climbing  Boys,  forgot  every  care  for  the  safety  of  so- 
ciety, which,  considering  the  few  children  employed  in  sweeping  chimneys, 
threw  out  of  its  protection  the  many  children  who  should  be  exposed  to  the 
hazards  of  fire,  and  to  be  tossed  out  of  the  windows." 

This  pleasant  sally  put  their  Lordships  into  such  good  humour,  that,  to  borrow 
a  couple  of  the  noble  Earl's  phrases,  the  Bill  was  either  "tossed  out  of  the  win- 
dow," or  "  exposed  to  the  hazard  of  fire,"  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  learn  of  its 
fate. 

The  report  of  the  foregoing  debate  and  decision  in  the  House  of  Peers  was 
published  in  my  newspaper  of  March  23,  1819.  Under  the  date  of  April  the  13th 
following,  I  find  this  paragraph,  written  by  myself,  and  for  the  authenticity  of 
which  I  can  as  conscientiously  vouch,  as  iiis  Lordship  could  for  the  truth  of  "a 
story  commonly  told  in  Ireland  :" — 

"Yesterday  (being  Easter  Monday),  at  the  Cutlers'  Hall,  in  this  town,  the 
Committee  for  abolishing  the  use  of  Climbing  Boys,  and  bettering  the  condition 
of  Chimney  Sweepers'  Apprentices,  gave  their  annual  dinner  to  the  children 
employed  in  that  business  here.  Twenty-two  were  present;  and  though  the 
lads  of  this  town  and  neighbourhood  fare  as  well,  if  not  better,  than  others  in 
the  like  situation  elsewhere,  their  friends  here  are  more  and  more  convinced, 
fmni  experience,  observation,  and  reflection  during  twelve  years  past,  that  the 
practice  of  employing  Climbing  Boys  to  sweep  chimneys  is  a  national  crime  as 
well  as  a  national  disgrace,  and  ought  to  be  prohibited. 

"A  boy,  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  who  attended  the  dinner  at  the  Cutlers' 
Hall,  on  last  Easter  Monday,  lately  came  to  a  shocking  and  premature  end,  in 
the  following  manner,  as  we  were,  on  this  occasion,  informed  by  his  companions. 


Their  master  being  asleep  in  a  public  house,  in  a  village  in  Derbyshire,  his  two 
apprentices,  who  had  been  Bweeping  in  the?  neighbourhood,  were  left  with  a 
company  of  fellows  who  were  drinking  together,  and  became  the  butts  of  their 
brutal  conversation.  Among  other  thing",  it  was  wantonly  proposed  to  the 
younger  apprentice  to  go  up  the  chimney  of  the  room  in  which  they  were  sittim.', 
while  there  was  a  lire  in  the  range.  Be  refused;  but  the  elder,  tempted  by  a 
promise  of  sixpence,  ventured,  and  was  helped  up  into  the  Hue.  Before  he 
reached  the  top,  however,  the  soot  fell  down  in  such  quantities  upon  the  fire 
below,  that  the  chimney  was  soon  in  a  blaze,  and  the  poor  boy  struggled  to  the 
bottom  through  the  flames,  and  was  dragged  out  by  the  legs  before  he  came 
direct  upon  the  live  coals  in  the  grate.  lie  was  so  miserably  scorched,  that  he 
died,  after  lingering  three  weeks  in  excruciating  torture." 

I  need  not  further  pursue  the  history  of  parliamentary  proceedings  on  this 
subject,  in  which  my  friends  and  I  bore  our  part  from  time  to  time,  till,  during 
the  last  -Session,  an  Act  for  the  total  discontinuance  of  the  evil  practice  passed 
both  Houses,  almost  without  a  murmur  of  opposition,  under  the  direct  sanction 
of  Her  Majesty's  Government. 

Among  other  intervening  means  for  eventually  bringing  to  pass  this  great 
purpose,  Mr.  Roberts  projected  the  publication  of  a  volume,  to  be  entitled  "  The 
Cliimncy  Sweepers'  Friend,  and  Climbing  Boys'  JHlum"  of  which  he  persuaded 
me  to  undertake  the  editorship.  The  first  part  id"  the  work,  when  completed, 
contained,  in  various  forms,  a  summary  of  such  information  on  the  general  ques- 
tion as  we  had  been  enabled  to  collect,  during  seventeen  years,  from  the  com- 
mencement of  our  labours  and  inquiries.  The  second  part  consisted  of  essays 
and  tales,  in  prose  and  verse,  illustrative  of  the  unpitied  and  unalienated  Buffer- 
ings of  children,  under  this  unnatural  bondage,  through  more  than  a  century 
since  its  introduction.  These  were  chiefly  furnished,  at  my  solicitation,  by 
living  authors  of  distinction.  The  volume  was  dedicated,  by  permission,  to  His 
Majesty,  George  IV.,  and  being  soon  out  of  print,  a  new  edition  was  issued  at 
York,  by  a  benevolent  bookseller,  and  sold  extensively  through  the  northern 
provinces. 

The  following  small  pieces  were  my  quota  of  contributions  to  this  work. 

October  22,  1810. 


PROLOGUE. A    WORD    WITH    MYSELF. 

I  know  they  scorn  the  Climbing  Boy, 
The  gay,  the  selfish,  and  the  proud ; 

I  know  his  villanous  employ 

Is  mockery  with  the  thoughtless  crowd. 

So  he  it ; — brand  with  every  name 

Of  burning  infamy  his  art, 
But  let  his  country  bear  the  shame, 

And  feel  the  iron  at  her  heart. 

I  cannot  coldly  pass  him  by, 

Stript,  wounded,  left  by  thieves  half  dead  ; 


32  THE    CLIMBING    BOY'S    SOLILOQUIES. 


Nor  see  an  infant  Lazarus  lie 

At  rich  men's  gates,  imploring  bread. 

A  frame  as  sensitive  as  mine, 

Limbs  moulded  in  a  kindred  form, 

A  soul  degraded  yet  divine, 

Endear  to  me  my  brother-worm. 

He  was  my  equal  at  his  birth, 

A  naked,  helpless,  weeping  child  ; 

— And  such  are  born  to  thrones  on  earth, 
On  such  hath  every  mother  smiled. 

My  equal  he  will  be  again, 

Down  in  that  cold,  oblivious  gloom, 

Where  all  the  prostrate  ranks  of  men 
Crowd,  without  fellowship,  the  tomb. 

My  equal  in  the  judgment  day, 

He  shall  stand  up  before  the  throne, 

When  every  veil  is  rent  away, 
And  good  and  evil  only  known. 

And  is  he  not  mine  equal  now  ? 

Am  I  less  fall'n  from  God  and  truth, 
Though  "  Wretch"  be  written  on  his  brow, 

And  leprosy  consume  his  youth  ? 

If  holy  nature  yet  have  laws 

Binding  on  man,  of  woman  born, 

In  her  own  court  I'll  plead  his  cause, 
Arrest  the  doom,  or  share  the  scorn. 

Yes,  let  the  scorn  that  haunts  his  course 
Turn  on  me  like  a  trodden  snake, 

And  hiss  and  sting  without  remorse, 
If  I  the  fatherless  forsake. 

Sheffield,  Feb.  28,  1824. 


NO.    I. THE    COMPLAINT. 

Who  loves  the  Climbing  Boy  ?    Who  cares 

If  well  or  ill  I  be? 
Is  there  a  living  soul  that  shares 

A  thought  or  wish  with  me  ? 

I've  had  no  parents  since  my  birth, 

Brothers  and  sisters  none  ; 
Ah  !  what  to  me  is  all  this  earth 

Where  I  am  only  one  ? 

I  wake  and  see  the  morning  shine, 

And  all  around  me  gay  ; 
But  nothing  I  behold  is  mine, 

No,  not  the  light  of  day  ; — 

No,  not  the  very  breath  I  draw  ; 

These  limbs  are  not  my  own ; 
A  master  calls  me  his  by  law, 

My  griefs  are  mine  alone  : 

Ah  !  these  they  could  not  make  him  feel — 
Would  they  themselves  had  felt ! 

Who  bound  me  to  that  man  of  steel 
Whom  mercy  cannot  melt. 

Yet  not  for  wealth  or  ease  I  sigh, 

All  are  not  rich  or  great ; 
Many  may  be  as  poor  as  I, 

But  none  so  desolate. 

For  all  I  know  have  kin  and  kind, 
Some  home,  some  hope,  some  joy ; 

But  these  I  must  not  look  to  find, — 
Who  knows  the  Climbing  Boy  ? 

The  world  has  not  a  place  of  rest 

For  outcast  so  forlorn  ; 
'Twas  all  bespoken,  all  possest, 

Long  before  I  was  born. 
Affection,  too,  life's  sweetest  cup, 

Goes  round  from  hand  to  hand, 


34 


But  I  am  never  ask'd  to  sup, — 
Out  of  the  ring  I  stand. 

If  kindness  beats  within  my  heart, 
What  heart  will  beat  again  ? 

I  coax  the  dogs,  they  snarl  and  start ; 
Brutes  are  as  bad  as  men. 

The  beggar's  child  may  rise  above 

The  misery  of  his  lot ; 
The  gipsy  may  be  loved,  and  love ; 

But  I — but  I  must  not. 

Hard  fare,  cold  lodgings,  cruel  toil, 
Youth,  health,  and  strength  consume  : 

What  tree  could  thrive  in  such  a  soil? 
What  flower  so  scathed  could  bloom  ? 

Should  I  outgrow  this  crippling  work, 
How  shall  my  bread  be  sought  ? 

Must  I  to  other  lads  turn  Turk, 
And  teach  what  I  am  taught  ? 

Oh,  might  I  roam  with  flocks  and  herds 

In  fellowship  along ! 
Oh,  were  I  one  among  the  birds, 

All  wing,  and  life,  and  song  ! 

Free  with  the  fishes  might  I  dwell 

Down  in  the  quiet  sea  ! 
The  snail  in  his  cob-castle  shell — 

The  snail's  a  king  to  me  ! 

For  out  he  glides  in  April  showers, 
Lies  snug  when  storms  prevail ; 

He  feeds  on  fruit,  he  sleeps  on  flowers — 
I  wish  I  was  a  snail ! 

No,  never ;  do  the  worst  they  can 

I  may  be  happy  still ; 
For  I  was  born  to  be  a  man, 

And  if  I  live  I  will. 


.'!.-, 


NO.   II. THE    DREAM. 

I  dreamt  ;  but  what  care  I  for  dreams  ? 

And  yet  I  tremble  too ; 
It  look'd  so  like  the  truth,  it  seems 

As  if  it  would  come  true. 

I  dreamt  that,  long  ere  peep  of  day, 

I  left  my  cold  straw  bed, 
And  o'er  a  common  far  away, 

As  if  I  flew,  I  fled. 

The  tempest  harried  me  behind 

Like  a  mill-stream  along  ; 
I  could  have  lean'd  against  the  wind, 

It  was  so  deadly  strong. 

The  snow — I  never  saw  such  snow — 

Raged  like  the  sea  all  round, 
Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro  ; 

I  thought  I  must  be  drown'd. 

Now  up,  now  down,  with  main  and  might 
I  plunged  through  drift  and  stour; 

Nothing,  no,  nothing  baulk'd  my  flight, 
I  had  a  giant's  power. 

Till  suddenly  the  storm  stood  still, 

Flat  lay  the  snow  beneath ; 
I  curdled  to  an  icicle, 

I  could  not  stir — not  breathe. 

My  master  found  me  rooted  there  ; 

He  flogg'd  me  back  to  sense, 
Then  pluck'd  me  up,  and  by  the  hair, 

Sheer  over  ditch  and  fence, — 

He  dragg'd,  and  dragg'd,  and  dragg'd  me  on, 

For  many  and  many  a  mile  ; 
At  a  grand  house  he  stopp'd  anon ; 

It  was  a  famous  pile. 


36 


Up  to  the  moon  it  secm'd  to  rise, 

Broad  as  the  earth  to  stand  ; 
The  building  darken' d  half  the  skies, 

Its  shadow  half  the  land. 

All  round  was  still — as  still  as  death ; 

I  shivering,  chattering,  stood  ; 
And  felt  the  coming,  going  breath, 

The  tingling,  freezing  blood. 

ft  ft7  o 

Soon,  at  my  master's  rap,  rap,  rap, 

The  door  wide  open  flew ; 
In  went  we ; — with  a  thunder  clap 

Again  the  door  bang'd  to. 

I  trembled,  as  I've  felt  a  bird 

Tremble  within  my  fist ; 
For  none  I  saw,  and  none  I  heard, 

But  all  was  lone  and  whist. 

The  moonshine  through  the  windows  show'd 
Long  stripes  of  light  and  gloom ; 

The  carpet  with  all  colours  glow'd, 
Stone  men  stood  round  the  room : 

Fair  pictures  in  their  golden  frames, 
And  looking-glasses  bright ; 

ft    ft  ft  ' 

Fine  things,  I  cannot  tell  their  names, 
Dazed  and  bewitch'd  me  quite. 

Master  soon  thwack'd  them  out  my  head — 

The  chimney  must  be  swept ! 
Yet  in  the  grate  the  coals  were  red ; 

I  stamp'd,  and  scream'd,  and  wept. 

I  kneel'd,  I  kiss'd  his  feet,  I  pray'd ; 

For  then — which  shows  I  dreamt — 
Methought  I  ne'er  before  had  made 

The  terrible  attempt. 

But,  as  a  butcher  lifts  the  lamb 
That  struggles  for  its  life, 


THE    CLIMBING    BOY's    SOLILOQUIES.  37 


(Far  from  the  ramping-,  bleating  dam,) 
Beneath  his  desperate  knife  ; 

With  his  two  iron  hands  he  grasp' d 

And  hoisted  me  aloof; 
His  naked  neck  in  vain  I  clasp'd, 

The  man  was  pity-proof. 

So  forth  he  swung  me  through  the  space, 

Above  the  smouldering  fire  ; 
I  never  can  forget  his  face, 

Nor  his  gruff  growl,  "Go  higher." 

As  if  I  climb'd  a  steep  house-side, 

Or  scaled  a  dark  draw-well, 
The  horrid  opening  was  so  wide, 

I  had  no  hold,— I  fell: 

Fell  on  the  embers,  all  my  length, 

But  scarcely  felt  their  heat, 
When,  with  a  madman's  rage  and  strength, 

I  started  on  my  feet ; 

And,  ere  I  well  knew  what  I  did, 

Had  clear'd  the  broader  vent ; 
From  his  wild  vengeance  to  be  hid, 

I  cared  not  where  I  went. 

The  passage  narrow'd  as  I  drew 

Limb  after  limb  by  force, 
Working  and  worming,  like  a  screw, 

My  hard,  slow,  up-hill  course. 

Rougher  than  harrow-teeth  within, 

Sharp  lime  and  jagged  stone 
Stripp'd  my  few  garments,  gored  the  skin, 

And  grided  to  the  bone. 

Gall'd,  wounded,  bleeding,  ill  at  ease, 

Still  I  was  stout  at  heart ; 
Head,  shoulders,  (dhows,  hands,  feet,  knees, 

All  play'd  a  stirring  part. 


\  "i .  ii. 


I  climb'd,  and  climb'd,  and  climb'd  in  vain, 

No  light  at  top  appear'd  ; 
No  end  to  darkness,  toil,  and  pain, 

While  worse  and  worse  I  fear'd. 

I  climb'd,  and  climb'd,  and  had  to  climb, 

Yet  more  and  more  astray  ; 
A  hundred  years  I  thought  the  time, 

A  thousand  miles  the  way. 

Strength  left  me,  and  breath  fail'd  at  last, 
Then  had  I  headlong  dropp'd, 

But  the  straight  funnel  wedged  me  fast, 
So  there  dead-lock'd  I  stopp'd. 

I  groan' d,  I  gasp'd,  to  shriek  I  tried, 
No  sound  came  from  my  breast ; 

There  was  a  weight  on  every  side, 
As  if  a  stone-delf  press'd. 

Yet  still  my  brain  kept  beating  on 
Through  night-mares  of  all  shapes, 

Foul  fiends,  no  sooner  come  than  gone, 
Dragons,  and  wolves,  and  apes. 

They  gnash'd  on  me  with  bloody  jaws, 
ChatterM,  and  howl'd,  and  hiss'd  : 

They  clutch'd  me  with  their  cat-like  claws, 
While  off  they  whirl'd  in  mist. 

Till,  like  a  lamp-flame,  blown  away, 

My  soul  went  out  in  gloom ; 
Thought  ceased,  and  dead-alive  I  lay, 

Shut  up  in  that  black  tomb. 

Oh,  sweetly  on  the  mother's  lap 

Her  pretty  baby  lies, 
And  breathes  so  freely  in  his  nap, 

She  can't  take  off  her  eyes. 

Ah  !  thinks  she  then, — ah,  thinks  she  not ! 
How  soon  the  time  may  be 


n 

THE    CLIMBING    BOy's    SOLILOQUIES.  39 


When  all  her  love  will  be  forgot, 
And  he  a  wretch  like  me  ? 

She  in  her  grave  at  rest  may  He, 

And  daisies  speck  the  sod, 
Nor  see  him  bleed,  nor  hear  him  cry, 

Beneath  a  ruffian's  rod. 

No  mother's  lap  was  then  my  bed, 

O'er  me  no  mother  smiled  ; 
No  mother's  arm  went  round  my  head, 

— Am  I  no  mother's  child  ? 

Life,  on  a  sudden,  ran  me  through, 
Light,  light,  all  round  me  blazed, 

Red  flames  rush'd  roaring  up  the  flue, 
—Flames  by  my  master  raised. 

I  heard  his  voice,  and  ten-fold  might 

Bolted  through  every  limb  ; 
I  saw  his  face,  and  shot  upright ; 

Brick  walls  made  way  from  him. 

Swift  as  a  squirrel  seeks  the  bough 
Where  he  may  turn  and  look 

Down  on  the  school-boy,  chop-fallen  now, 
My  ready  flight  I  took. 

The  fire  was  quickly  quench'd  beneath, 
Blue  light  above  me  glanced, 

And  air,  sweet  air,  I  'gan  to  breathe, 
The  blood  within  me  danced. 

I  climb'd,  and  climb'd,  and  climb'd  away, 

Till  on  the  top  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  glorious  dawn  of  day 

Come  down  on  field  and  flood. 

Oh,  me  !  a  moment  of  such  joy 

I  never  knew  before  ; 
Right  happy  was  the  climbing-boy, 

One  moment, — but  no  more. 


40  THE    CLIMBING    BOY's    SOLILOQUIES. 

Sick,  sick  I  turn'd,  the  world  ran  round, 

The  stone  I  stood  on  broke, 
And  plumb  I  toppled  to  the  ground, 

— Like  a  scared  owl,  I  woke. 

I  woke,  but  slept  again,  and  dream'd 

The  self-same  things  anew  : 
The  storm,  the  snow,  the  building  seem'd 

All  true,  as  daylight's  true. 

But,  when  I  tumbled  from  the  top, 

The  world  itself  had  flown ; 
There  was  no  ground  on  which  to  drop, 

'Twas  emptiness  alone. 

On  winter  nights  I've  seen  a  star 

Leap  headlong  from  the  sky  ; 
I've  watch'd  the  lightning  from  afar 

Flash  out  of  heaven  and  die. 

So, — but  in  darkness, — so  I  fell 

Through  nothing  to  no  place, 
Until  I  saw  the  flames  of  hell 

Shoot  upward  to  my  face. 

Down,  down,  as  with  a  mill-stone  weight, 
I  plunged  right  through  their  smoke  ! 

To  cry  for  mercy  'twas  too  late, — 
They  seized  me, — I  awoke  : 

Woke,  slept,  and  dream'd  the  like  again 
The  third  time,  through  and  through, 

Except  the  winding  up ; — ah  !  then 
I  wish  it  had  been  true. 

For  when  I  climb' d  into  the  air, 
Spring-breezes  flapt  me  round ; 

Green  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods  were  there, 
And  May-flowers  on  the  ground. 

The  moon  was  waning  in  the  west, 
The  clouds  were  golden  red  ; 


THE    CLIMBING    BOy's    SOLILOQUIES. 


The  lark,  a  mile  above  his  nest, 
Was  cheering  o'er  my  head. 

The  stars  had  vanish'd,  all  but  one, 

The  darling-  of  the  sky, 
That  glitter'd  like  a  tiny  sun, 

No  bigger  than  my  eye. 

I  look'd  at  this, — I  thought  it  smiled, 

Which  made  me  feel  so  glad, 
That  I  became  another  child, 

And  not  the  climbing  lad  : 

A  child  as  fair  as  you  may  see, 

Whom  soot  has  never  soiPd 
As  rosy-cheek'd  as  I  might  be 

If  I  had  not  been  spoil'd. 

Wings,  of  themselves,  about  me  grew, 

And,  free  as  morning-light, 
Up  to  that  single  star  I  flew, 

So  beautiful  and  bright. 

Through  the  blue  heaven  I  stretch'd  my  hand 

To  touch  its  beams, — it  broke 
Like  a  sea-bubble  on  the  sand ; 

Then  all  fell  dark.— I  woke. 


NO.  III. EASTER-MONDAY    AT    SHEFFIELD. 

Yes,  there  are  some  that  think  of  me  ; 
The  blessing  on  their  heads  !  I  say  ; 
May  all  their  lives  as  happy  be, 

As  mine  has  been  with  them  to-day! 

When  I  was  sold,  from  Lincolnshire 
To  this  good  town,  I  heard  a  noise, 

What  merry-making  would  he  here 
At  Easter-tide,  for  climbing  boys. 


42  THE    CLIMBING    BOy's    SOLILOQUIES. 

*T\vas  strange,  because  where  I  had  been, 
The  better  people  cared  no  more 

For  such  as  me,  than  had  they  seen 
A  young  crab  crawling  on  their  shore. 

Well,  Easter  came  ; — in  all  the  land 
Was  e'er  a  'prentice  lad  so  fine  ! 

A  bran-new  suit  at  second-hand, 

Cap,  shoes,  and  stockings,  all  were  mine. 

The  coat  was  green,  the  waistcoat  red, 
The  breeches  leather,  white  and  clean ; 

I  thought  I  must  go  off  my  head, 
I  could  have  jump'd  out  of  my  skin. 

All  Sunday  through  the  streets  I  stroll'd, 
Fierce  as  a  turkey-cock,  to  see 

How  all  the  people,  young  and  old, 
At  least  I  thought  so,  look'd  at  me. 

At  night,  upon  my  truss  of  straw, 

Those  gaudy  clothes  hung  round  the  room ; 

By  moon-glimpse  oft  their  shapes  I  saw 
Like  bits  of  rainbow  in  the  gloom. 

Yet  scarce  I  heeded  them  at  all, 
Although  I  never  slept  a  wink  ; 

The  feast,  next  day,  at  Cutlers'  Hall, 
Of  that  I  could  not  help  but  think. 

Wearily  trail' d  the  night  away  ; 

Between  the  watchman  and  the  clock, 
I  thought  it  never  would  be  day  ; 

At  length  out-crew  the  earliest  cock. 

A  second  answer'd,  then  a  third, 

At  a  long  distance, — one,  two,  three, — 

A  dozen  more  in  turn  were  heard ; 
— I  crew  among  the  rest  for  glee. 

Up  gat  we,  I  and  little  Bill, 

And  donn'd  our  newest  and  our  best ; 


THE    CLIMBING    BOY'S    SOLILOQUIES.  43 


Nay,  let  the  proud  say  what  they  will, 
As  grand  as  fiddlers  we  were  drest. 

We  left  our  litter  in  the  nook, 

And  wash'd  ourselves  as  white  as  snow ; 
On  brush  and  bag  we  scorn'd  to  look, 

— It  was  a  holiday,  you  know. 

What  ail'd  me  then  I  could  not  tell, 
I  yawn'd  the  whole  forenoon  away, 

And  hearken'd  while  the  vicar's  bell 

Went  ding  dong,  ding  dong,  pay,  pay,  pay  ! 

The  clock  struck  twelve — I  love  the  twelves 
Of  all  the  hours  'twixt  sun  and  moon  ; , 

For  then  poor  lads  enjoy  themselves, 
— We  sleep  at  midnight,  rest  at  noon. 

Tliis  noon  was  not  a  resting  time  ! 

At  the  first  stroke  Ave  started  all,  . 
And,  while  the  tune  rang  through  the  chime, 

Muster'd,  like  soldiers,  at  the  hall. 

Not  much  like  soldfers  in  our  gait ; 

Yet  never  soldier,  in  his  life, 
Tried,  as  he  march'd,  to  look  more  straight 

Than  Bill  and  I, — to  drum  and  fife. 

But  now  I  think  on't,  what  with  scars, 
Lank,  bony  limbs,  and  spavin'd  feet, 

Like  broken  soldiers  from  the  wars, 

We  limp'd,  yet  strutted  through  the  street. 

Then,  while  our  meagre,  motley  crew 
Came  from  all  quarters  of  the  town, 

Folks  to  their  doors  and  windows  flew; 
I  thought  the  world  turn'd  upside  down. 

For  now,  instead  of  oaths  and  jeers, 

The  sauce  that  I  have  found  elsewhere, 

Kind  words,  and  smiles,  and  hearty  cheers 
Met  us, — with  halfpence  here  and  there. 


THE    CLIMBING    BOY's    SOLILOQUIES. 


The  mothers  held  their  babies  high, 
To  chuckle  at  our  hobbling  train, 

But  dipt  them  close  while  we  went  by ; 
— I  heard  their  kisses  fall  like  rain, — 

And  wiped  my  cheek,  that  never  felt 
The  sweetness  of  a  mother's  kiss  ; 

For  heart  and  eyes  began  to  melt, 

And  I  was  sad,  yet  pleased,  with  this. 

At  Cutlers'  Hall  we  found  the  crowd, 
That  shout  the  gentry  to  their  feast ; 

They  made  us  way,  and  bawl'd  so  loud, 
We  might  have  been  young  lords  at  least. 

We  enter'd,  twenty  lads  and  more, 
While  gentlemen,  and  ladies  too, 

All  bade  us  welcome  at  the  door, 

And  kindly  ask'd  us, — " How  d'ye  do?" 

"  Bravely,"  I  answer'd,  but  my  eye 

Prickled,  and  leak'd,  and  twinkled  still ; 

I  long'd  to  be  alone,  to  cry, 
— To  be  alone,  and  cry  my  fill. 

Our  other  lads  were  blithe  and  bold, 
And  nestling,  nodding  as  they  sat, 

Till  dinner  came,  their  tales  they  told, 
And  talk'd  of  this,  and  laugh'd  at  that. 

I  pluck'd  up  courage,  gaped,  and  gazed 
On  the  fine  room,  fine  folks,  fine  things, 

Chairs,  tables,  knives,  and  forks,  amazed, 
With  pots  and  platters  fit  for  kings. 

Roast-beef,  plum-pudding,  and  what  not, 
Soon  smoked  before  us, — such  a  size, 

Giants  their  dinners  might  have  got ; 
We  open'd  all  our  mouths  and  eyes. 

Anon,  upon  the  board,  a  stroke 

Warn'd  each  to  stand  up  in  his  place ; 


if. 


One  of  our  generous  friends  then  spoke 
Three  or  four  words — they  call'd  it  Grace. 

I  think  he  said — "  God  bless  our  food  !" 
— Oft  had  I  heard  that  name,  in  tones 

Which  ran  like  ice,  cold  through  my  blood, 
And  made  the  flesh  creep  on  my  bones. 

But  now,  and  with  a  power  so  sweet, 

The  name  of  God  went  through  my  heart, 

That  my  lips  trembled  to  repeat 

Those  words,  and  tears  were  fain  to  start. 

Tears,  words,  were  in  a  twinkle  gone, 

Like  sparrows  whirring  through  the  street, 

When,  at  a  sign,  we  all  fell  on, 
As  geese  in  stubble,  to  our  meat. 

The  large  plum-puddings  first  were  carved, 
And  well  we  younkers  plied  them  o'er ; 

You  would  have  thought  we  had  been  starved, 
Or  were  to  be, — a  month  or  more. 

Next  the  roast-beef  flew  reeking  round 

In  glorious  slices,  mark  ye  that ! 
The  dishes  were  with  gravy  drown'd ; 

A  sight  to  make  a  weasel  fat. 

A  great  meat-pie,  a  good  meat-pie, 

Baked  in  a  cradle-length  of  tin, 
Was  open'd,  emptied,  scoop'd  so  dry, 

You  might  have  seen  your  face  within. 

The  ladies  and  the  gentlemen 

Took  here  and  there  with  us  a  seat ; 

They  might  be  hungry,  too, — but  then 
We  gave  them  little  time  to  eat. 

Their  arms  were  busy  helping  us, 
Like  cobblers'  elbows  at  their  work, 

Or  see-saw,  see-saw,  thus  and  thus  ; 
A  merry  game  at  knife  and  fork. 


46  THE    CLIMBING    BOy's    SOLILOQUIES. 


Oh  then  the  din,  the  deafening  din, 

Of  plates,  cans,  crockery,  spoons  and  knives, 

And  waiters  running  out  and  in  ; 
We  might  be  eating  for  our  lives. 

Such  feasting  I  had  never  seen, 

So  presently  had  got  enough  ; 
The  rest,  like  fox-hounds,  stanch  and  keen, 

Were  made  of  more  devouring  stuff. 

They  cramm'd  like  cormorants  their  claws, 
As  though  they  never  would  have  done ; 

It  was  a  feast  to  watch  their  jaws 
Grind,  and  grow  weary,  one  by  one. 

But  there's  an  end  to  every  thing ; 

And  this  grave  dinner  pass'd  away, 
I  wonder  if  great  George  our  king 

Has  such  a  dinner  every  day. 

Grace  after  meat  again  was  said, 
And  my  good  feelings  sprang  anew, 

But  at  the  sight  of  gingerbread, 

Wine,  nuts,  and  oranges,  they  flew. 

So  while  we  took  a  turn  with  these, 

Almost  forgetting  we  had  dined ; 
As  though  we  might  do  what  we  please, 

We  loll'd,  and  joked,  and  told  our  mind. 

Now  I  had  time,  if  not  before, 

To  take  a  peep  at  every  lad ; 
I  counted  them  to  twenty-four, 

Each  in  his  Easter-finery  clad. 

All  wash'd  and  clean  as  clean  could  be, 
And  yet  so  dingy,  marr'd,  and  grim, 

A  mole  with  half  an  eye  might  see 
Our  craft  in  every  look  and  limb. 

All  shapes  but  straight  ones  you  might  find, 
As  sapling-firs  on  the  high  moors, 


THE    CLIMBING    BOY's    SOLILOQUIES.  47 

Black,  stunted,  crook'd,  through  which  the  wind, 
Like  a  wild  bull,  all  winter  roars. 

Two  toddling  five-year  olds  were  there, 

Twins,  that  had  just  begun  to  climb, 
With  cherry-cheeks,  and  curly  hair, 

And  skins  not  yet  engrain'd  with  grime. 

I  wish'd,  I  did,  that  they  might  die, 

Like  "Babes  i'  th1  Wood,"  the  little  slaves, 

And  "  Robin  redbreast"  painfully 

Hide  them  "with  leaves,"  for  want  of  graves; — 

Rather  than  live,  like  me,  and  weep 

To  think  that  ever  they  were  born  ; 
Toil  the  long  day,  and  from  short  sleep 

Wake  to  fresh  miseries  every  morn. 

Gay  as  young  goldfinches  in  spring, 

They  chirp'd  and  peck'd,  top-full  of  joy, 

As  if  it  was  some  mighty  thing 
To  be  a  chimney-sweeper's  boy. 

And  so  it  is,  on  such  a  day 

As  welcome  Easter  brings  us  here, 
— In  London,  too,  the  first  of  May, — 

But  oh,  what  is  it  all  the  year  ! 

Close  at  a  Quaker-lady's  side, 

Sate  a  young  girl ; — I  know  not  how 
I  felt  when  me  askance  she  eyed, 

And  a  quick  blush  flew  o'er  her  brow. 

For  then,  just  then,  I  caught  a  face 

Fair, — but  I  oft  had  seen  it  black, 
And  mark'd  the  owner's  tottering  pace 

Beneath  a  vile  two-bushel  sack. 

Oh  !  had  I  known  it  was  a  lass, 

Could  I  have  scom'd  her  with  her  load  ? 

— Nexl  time  we  meet,  she  shall  not  pass 
Without  a  lift  alomr  the  road. 


48 


Her  mother, — mother  but  in  name  ! 

Brought  her  to-day  to  dine  with  us  : 
Her  father, — she's  his  'prentice  : — shame 

On  both,  to  use  their  daughter  thus  ! 

Well,  /  shall  grow,  and  she  will  grow 

Older, — it  may  be  taller, — yet ; 
And  if  she'll  smile  on  me,  I  know 

Poor  Poll  shall  be  poor  Reuben's  pet. 

Time,  on  his  two  unequal  legs, 

Kept  crawling  round  the  church-clock's  face, 
Though  none  could  see  him  shift  his  pegs, 

Each  was  for  ever  changing  place. 

Oh,  why  are  pleasant  hours  so  short  1 
And  why  are  wretched  ones  so  long  ? 

They  fly  like  swallows  when  we  sport, 

They  stand  like  mules  when  all  goes  wrong. 

Before  we  parted,  one  kind  friend, 

And  then  another,  talk'd  so  free  ; 
They  went  from  table-end  to  end, 

And  spoke  to  each,  and  spoke  to  me. 

Books,  pretty  books,  with  pictures  in, 
Were  given  to  those  who  learn. to  read, 

Which  show'd  them  how  to  flee  from  sin, 
And  to  be  happy  boys  indeed. 

These  climbers  go  to  Sunday-schools, 
And  hear  what  things  to  do  or  shun, 

Get  good  advice,  and  golden  rules 
For  all  their  lives, — but  I'm  not  one. 

Nathless  I'll  go  next  Sco1)bath  day 

Where  masters,  without  thrashing,  teach 

Lost  children  how  to  read,  and  pray, 
And  sing,  and  hear  the  parsons  preach. 

For  I'm  this  day  determined — not 
With  bad  companions  to  grow  old, 


But,  weal  or  wo,  whate'er  my  lot, 

To  mind  what  our  good  friends  have  told. 

They  told  us  things  I  never  knew 

Of  Him  who  heaven  and  earth  did  make  ; 

And  my  heart  felt  their  words  were  true, 
It  burn'd  within  me  while  they  spake. 

Can  I  forget  that  God  is  love, 

And  sent  his  son  to  dwell  on  earth  ? 

Or  that  our  Saviour  from  above 
Lay  in  a  manger  at  his  birth, — 

Grew  up  in  humble  poverty, 
A  life  of  grief  and  sorrow  led  ? 

No  home  to  comfort  Him  had  He  ; 
No,  not  a  place  to  lay  his  head. 

Yet  He  was  merciful  and  kind, 

Heal'd  with  a  touch  all  sort  of  harms  ; 

The  sick,  the  lame,  the  deaf,  the  blind ; 
And  took  young  children  in  his  arms. 

Then  He  was  kill'd  by  wicked  men, 
And  buried  in  a  deep  stone  cave  ; 

But  of  Himself  He  rose  again, 

On  Easter-Sunday,  from  the  grave. 

Caught  up  in  clouds, — at  God's  right  hand, 
In  heaven  He  took  the  highest  place  ; 

There  dying  Stephen  saw  him  stand, 
^-Stephen,  who  had  an  angel's  face. 

He  loves  the  poor,  He  always  did ; 

The  little  ones  are  still  his  care ; 
I'll  seek  Him, — let  who  will  forbid, — 

I'll  go  to  Him  this  night  in  prayer. 

Oh,  soundly,  soundly  should  I  sleep, 
And  think  no  more  of  sufferings  past, 

If  God  would  only  bless,  and  keep, 
And  make  me  his, — his  own,  at  last. 

Sheffield,  March,  1834. 


VOL.  II. 


SONGS  OF  ZION, 


IMITATIONS    OF   THE   PSALMS. 


In  the  following  imitations  of  portions  of  the  true  "  Songs  of  Z,ion"  the  author 
pretends  not  to  have  succeeded  better  than  any  that  have  gone  before  him  ;  but, 
having  followed  in  the  track  of  none,  he  would  venture  to  hope,  that,  by  avoid- 
ing the  rugged  literality  of  some,  and  the  diffusive  paraphrases  of  others,  he 
may,  in  a  few  instances,  have  approached  nearer  than  either  of  them  have 
generally  done  to  the  ideal  model  of  what  devotional  poems,  in  a  modern  tongue, 
grounded  upon  the  subjects  of  ancient  psalms,  yet  suited  for  Christian  edifica- 
tion, ought  to  be.  Beyond  this  he  dare  not  say  more  than  that,  whatever  symp- 
toms of  feebleness  or  bad  taste  may  be  betrayed  in  the  execution  of  these  pieces, 
he  offers  not  to  the  public  the  premature  fruits  of  idleness  or  haste.  So  far  as 
he  recollects,  he  has  endeavoured  to  do  his  best,  and,  in  doing  so,  he  has  never 
hesitated  to  sacrifice  ambitious  ornament  to  simplicity,  clearness,  and  force  of 
thought  and  expression.  If,  in  the  event,  it  shall  be  found  that  he  has  added  a 
little  to  the  small  national  stock  of  "psalms  and  hymns,  and  spiritual  songs,"  in 
which  piety  speaks  the  language  of  poetry,  and  poetry  the  language  of  inspira- 
tion, he  trusts  that  he  will  be  humbly  contented  and  unfeignedly  thankful. 

Sheffield,  May  21,  1822. 


PSALM  I. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who  shuns  the  way 
That  leads  ungodly  men  astray  ; 
Who  fears  to  stand  where  sinners  meet, 
Nor  with  the  scorner  takes  his  seat. 

The  law  of  God  is  his  delight ; 
That  cloud  by  day,  that  fire  by  night, 
Shall  be  his  comfort  in  distress, 
And  guide  him  through  the  wilderness. 


50 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  51 


His  works  shall  prosper ; — he  shall  be 
A  fruitful,  fair,  unwithering  tree, 
That,  planted  where  the  river  flows, 
Nor  drought,  nor  frost,  nor  mildew  knows. 

Not  so  the  wicked  ; — they  are  cast 
Like  chaff  upon  the  eddying  blast; 
In  judgment  they  shall  quake  for  dread, 
Nor  with  the  righteous  lift  their  head. 

For  God  hath  spied  their  secret  path, 
And  they  shall  perish  in  his  wrath ; 
He  too  hath  mark'd  his  people's  road, 
And  brings  them  to  his  own  abode. 


PSALM  III. 

The  Tempter  to  my  soul  hath  said, 
"  There  is  no  help  in  God  for  thee  :" 

Lord  !  lift  thou  up  thy  servant's  head, 
My  glory,  shield,  and  solace  be. 

Thus  to  the  Lord  I  raised  my  cry ; 

He  heard  me  from  his  holy  hill ; 
At  his  command  the  waves  rolPd  by ; 

He  beckon'd,  and  the  winds  were  still. 

I  laid  me  down  and  slept ; — T  woke  ; 

Thou,  Lord  !  my  spirit  didst  sustain  ; 
Bright  from  the  east  the  morning  broke, 

Thy  comforts  rose  on  me  again. 

I  will  not  fear,  though  armed  throngs 
Compass  my  steps,  in  all  their  wrath : 

Salvation  to  the  Lord  belongs  ; 

His  presence  guards  his  people's  path. 


52  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  IV.— No.  1. 

How  long,  ye  sons  of  men,  will  ye 
The  servant  of  the  Lord  despise, 

Delight  yourselves  with  vanity, 
And  trust  in  refuges  of  lies  ? 

Know  that  the  Lord  hath  set  apart 

The  godly  man  in  every  age  : 
He  loves  a  meek  and  lowly  heart ; 

His  people  are  his  heritage. 

Then  stand  in  awe,  nor  dare  to  sin ; 

Commune  with  your  own  heart ;  be  still ; 
The  Lord  requireth  truth  within, 

The  sacrifice  of  mind  and  will. 


PSALM  IV.— No.  2. 

While  many  cry,  in  Nature's  night, 
Ah  !  who  will  show  the  way  to  bliss  1 

Lord  !  lift  on  us  thy  saving  light ; 
We  seek  no  other  guide  than  this. 

Gladness  thy  sacred  presence  brings, 
More  than  the  joyful  reaper  knows  ; 

Or  he  who  treads  the  grapes,  and  sings, 
While  with  new  wine  his  vat  o'erflows. 

In  peace  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep ; 

Thine  arm,  O  Lord  !  shall  stay  my  head, 
Thine  angel  spread  his  tent,  and  keep 

His  midnight  watch  around  my  bed. 


SONGS    OF    ZIOX.  53 


PSALM  VIII. 

O  Lord,  our  King !  how  excellent 

Thy  name  on  earth  is  known  ! 
Thy  glory  in  the  firmament 

How  wonderfully  shown  ! 

Yet  are  the  humble  dear  to  Thee  ; 

Thy  praises  are  confest 
By  infants  lisping  on  the  knee, 

And  sucklings  at  the  breast. 

When  I  behold  the  heavens  on  high, 

The  work  of  thy  right  hand ; 
The  moon  and  stars  amid  the  sky, 

Thy  lights  in  every  land  : — 

Lord!  what  is  man,  that  thou  shouldst  deign 

On  him  to  set  thy  love, 
Give  him  on  earth  a  while  to  reign, 

Then  fill  a  throne  above  1 

0  Lord,  how  excellent  thy  name  ! 

How  manifold  thy  ways  ! 
Let  Time  thy  saving  truth  proclaim, 

Eternity  thy  praise. 


PSALM  XI. 

The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  place, 

And  from  his  throne  on  high 
He  looks  upon  the  human  race 

"With  omnipresent  eye. 

He  proves  the  righteous,  marks  their  path 
In  him  the  weak  are  strong; 

But  violence  provokes  his  wrath, 
The  Lord  abhorreth  wromr. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


God  on  the  wicked  will  rain  down 
Brimstone,  and  fire,  and  snares  ; 

The  gloom  and  tempest  of  his  frown  ; 
— This  portion  shall  be  theirs. 

The  righteous  Lord  will  take  delight 

Alone  in  righteousness ; 
The  just  are  pleasing  in  his  sight, 

The  humble  He  will  bless. 


PSALM  XV. 

Lord  !  who  is  he  that  shall  abide 

Within  thy  tabernacle  licit'  ! 
Who  on  thy  holy  hill  reside  ! 

— He  that  maintains  a  conscience  clear. 

He  that  in  his  uprightness  walks, 

Who  from  his  heart  the  truth  will  tell ; 
Of  others  ne'er  malignly  talks. 

Nor  lets  his  tongue  on  slanders  dwell: — 

lie  who  his  neighbour  never  wrongs, 

But,  while  the  base  ones  are  ahhorrM, 

Pays  the  high  honour  that  belongs 

To  those  who  feat  and  low  the  Lord: — 

lie  thai  to  his  own  hurt  will  swear, 

Nor  change  his  word,  his  covenant  break 

Nor  lend  in\  usury  to  ousuare. 

Nor  bribes  to  slay  the  righteous  take  : — 

I  [e  u  ho  doth  these  shall  not  be  moved, 

For  God  will  surely  hiiu  Uphold, 

Ainl  bring, when  in  the  furnace  tried, 

Forth  from  the  lire,  refined  like  gold. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  55 


PSALM  XIX.— No.  1. 

Thy  glory,  Lord  !  the  heavens  declare, 
The  firmament  displays  thy  skill ; 

The  changing  clouds,  the  viewless  air, 
Tempest  and  calm  thy  word  fulfil ; 

Day  unto  day  doth  utter  speech, 

And  night  to  night  thy  knowledge  teach. 

Though  voice  nor  sound  inform  the  ear, 
Well  known  the  language  of  their  song, 

When  one  by  one  the  stars  appear, 
Led  by  the  silent  moon  along, 

Till  round  the  earth,  from  all  the  sky, 

Thy  beauty  beams  on  every  eye. 

Waked  by  thy  touch,  the  morning  sun 
Comes  like  a  bridegroom  from  his  bower, 

And,  like  a  giant,  glad  to  run 

His  bright  career  with  speed  and  power ; 

— Thy  flaming  messenger,  to  dart 

Life  through  the  depth  of  Nature's  heart. 

While  these  transporting  visions  shine 

Along  the  path  of  Providence, 
Glory  eternal,  joy  divine, 

Thy  word  reveals,  transcending  sense  ; 
—My  soul  thy  goodness  longs  to  see, 
Thy  love  to  man,  thy  love  to  me. 


PSALM  XIX.— No.  2. 

Thy  law  is  perfect,  Lord  of  light ! 

Thy  testimonies  sure ; 
The  statutes  of  thy  realm  are  right, 

And  thy  commandment  pure. 


56  SONGS    OF    ZIOX. 


Holy,  inviolate  thy  fear, 

Enduring  as  thy  throne  ; 
Thy  judgments,  chastening  or  severe, 

Justice  and  truth  alone. 

More  prized  than  gold, — than  gold  whose  waste 

Refining  fire  expels ; 
Sweeter  than  honey  to  my  taste, 

Than  honey  from  the  cells. 

Let  these,  O  God !  my  soul  convert, 

And  make  thy  servant  wise  ; 
Let  these  be  gladness  to  my  heart, 

The  day-spring  to  mine  eyes. 

By  these  may  I  be  warn'd  betimes ; 

Who  knows  the  guile  within  ? 
Lord  !  save  me  from  presumptuous  crimes, 

Cleanse  me  from  secret  sin  ! 

So  may  the  words  my  lips  express, 
The  thoughts  that  throng  my  mind, 

O  Lord,  my  strength  and  righteousness  ! 
With  thee  acceptance  find. 


PSALM  XX. 

Jehovah  hear  thee  in  the  day 

Of  thine  adversity ; 
The  God  of  Jacob  be  thy  stay, 

His  name  thy  stronghold  be  : — 

Help  from  his  sanctuary  send, 
Strength  from  his  holy  hill ; 

Accept  thy  vows,  thy  prayers  attend, 
Thy  heart's  desires  fulfil. 

In  thy  deliverance  we  rejoice, 
And  in  Jehovah's  name 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  57 


Lift  up  our  banners  and  our  voice, 
His  triumphs  to  proclaim. 

Now  know  we  that  the  Lord  will  hear 

His  own  Anointed  One, 
And  rescue  him  from  every  fear ; 

— So  let  his  will  be  done. 

While  some  in  chariots  put  their  trust, 

On  horses  some  rely, 
Those  shall  be  broken,  these  like  dust 

Before  the  whirlwind  fly. 

But  we  remember  God  alone, 
And  hope  in  Hi  in,  whose  hand 

Will  raise  us  up  though  overthrown, 
Though  fall'n  will  make  us  stand. 

God  save  the  King, — the  people  save  ! 

Lord  !  hear  a  nation's  cries  : 
From  death  redeem  us,  and  the  grave, 

To  life  beyond  the  skies. 


PSALM  XXIII. 

The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,  no  want  shall  I  know ; 

I  feed  in  green  pastures,  safe-folded  I  rest ; 
He  leadeth  my  soul  where  the  still  waters  flow, 

Restores  me  when  wandering,  redeems  when  opprest. 

Through  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death  though  I  stray, 
Since  Thou  art  my  guardian,  no  evil  I  fear ; 

Thy  rod  shall  defend  me,  thy  staff  be  my  stay, 
No  harm  can  befall,  with  my  Comforter  near. 

In  the  midst  of  affliction  my  table  is  spread, 

With  blessings  unmeasured  my  cup  runneth  o'er; 

With  perfume  and  oil  Thou  anointest  my  head ; 
O  what  shall  I  ask  of  thy  Providence  more  ? 


58  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Let  goodness  and  mercy,  my  bountiful  God  ! 

Still  follow  my  steps  till  I  meet  Thee  above ; 
I  seek, — by  the  path  which  my  forefathers  trod 

Through  the  land  of  their  sojourn, — thy  kingdom  of  love. 


PSALM  XXIV.— No.  1. 

The  earth  is  thine,  Jehovah  ! — thine 
Its  peopled  realms  and  wealthy  stores  ; 

Built  on  the  flood,  by  power  divine, 
The  waves  are  ramparts  to  the  shores. 

But  who  shall  reach  thine  holy  place, 
Or  who,  O  Lord  !  ascend  thine  hill  ? 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  see  thy  face, 
The  perfect  man  that  doth  thy  will. 

He  who  to  bribes  hath  closed  his  hand, 

To  idols  never  bent  the  knee, 
Nor  sworn  in  falsehood, — He  shall  stand 

Redeem'd,  and  own'd,  and  kept  by  Thee. 


PSALM  XXIV.— No.  2. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates  !  and  wide 
Your  everlasting  doors  display ; 

Ye  angel-guards  !  like  flames  divide, 
And  give  the  King  of  Glory  way. 

Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ?— He, 
The  Lord  Omnipotent  to  save, 

Whose  own  right  arm  in  victory 

Led  captive  death,  and  spoil'd  the  grave. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates  !  and  high 
Your  everlasting  portals  heave  ; 

Welcome  the  king  of  Glory  nigh  ; 

Him  let  the  heaven  of  heavens  receive. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ? — "Who  ? 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  ; — behold  his  name  ; 
The  kingdom,  power,  and  honour  due 

Yield  Him,  ye  saints,  with  glad  acclaim, 


PSALM  XXIV.— No.  1. 
(the  second  version.) 

The  earth  is  God's  with  all  its  stores, 
The  world  and  all  therein  that  be  ; 

Upon  the  flood  He  fix'd  the  shores, 
And  gave  his  law  unto  the  sea. 

His  holy  mountain  who  shall  climb, 
Or  tread  his  courts  without  offence  ? 

— He  who  hath  cleansed  his  heart  from  crime, 
And  wash'd  his  hands  in  innocence  : — 

From  vanity  hath  tum'd  his  eyes, 

Nor  put  to  shame  his  neighbour's  trust, 

Practised  deceit,  or  utter'd  lies  ; — 
He  that  is  upright,  pure,  and  just. 

These  shall  enjoy  Jehovah's  grace ; 

To  them  his  mercy  shall  be  shown ; 
For  these  are  they  that  seek  thy  face  ; 

These,  God  of  Jacob  !  Thou  wilt  own. 


PSALM  XXIV.— No.  2. 
(the  second  version.) 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  crates  !  behold 
The  King  of  Glory  draweth  nigh; 

Ye  everlasting  doors !  unfold 

And  'jiM'  1  lim  welcome  to  the  sky. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Who  is  this  King  of  Glory, — who  ? 

— Jehovah,  strong  and  mighty : — He 
His  foes  in  battle  overthrew,       # 

And  crown' d  Himself  with  victory. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates  !  on  high  ; 

Eternal  doors  !  throw  wide  your  leaves ; 
The  King  of  Glory  draweth  nigh, 

And  Him  the  heaven  of  heavens  receive. 

Who  is  this  King  of  Glory, — say  ? 

— The  Lord  of  Hosts,  whom  we  proclaim ; 
He  is  the  King  of  Glory  : — they 

That  know  his  power  will  fear  his  Name. 


PSALM  XXVII.— No.  1. 

God  is  my  strong  salvation, 

What  foe  have  I  to  fear  ? 
In  darkness  and  temptation, 

My  light,  my  help  is  near : 
Though  hosts  encamp  around  me, 

Firm  to  the  fight  I  stand ; 
What  terror  can  confound  me, 

With  God  at  my  right  hand  ? 

Place  on  the  Lord  reliance, 

My  soul,  with  courage  wait ; 
His  truth  he  thine  affiance, 

When  faint  and  desolate  : 
His  might  thine  heart  shall  strengthen, 

His  love  thy  joy  increase  ; 
Mercy  thy  days  shall  lengthen  ; 

— The  Lord  will  give  thee  peace. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  61 


PSALM  XXVII.— No.  2. 

One  thing,  with  all  my  soul's  desire, 

I  sought  and  will  pursue  ; 
What  thine  own  Spirit  doth  inspire, 

Lord  !  for  thy  servant  do. 

Grant  me  within  thy  courts  a  place, 

Among  thy  saints  a  seat, 
For  ever  to  behold  thy  face, 

And  worship  at  thy  feet : — 

In  thy  pavilion  to  abide, 

When  storms  of  trouble  blow, 

And  in  thy  tabernacle  hide, 
Secure  from  every  foe. 

"  Seek  ye  my  face  ;" — without  delay, 
When  thus  I  hear  Thee  speak, 

My  heart  would  leap  for  joy,  and  say, 
"Thy  face,  Lord,  will  I  seek." 

Then  leave  me  not  when  griefs  assail, 
And  earthly  comforts  flee  ; 

When  father,  mother,  kindred  fail, 
My  God  !  remember  me. 

Oft  had  I  fainted,  and  resign'd 

Of  every  hope  my  hold, 
But  mine  afflictions  brought  to  mind 

Thy  benefits  of  old. 

Wait  on  the  Lord,  with  courage  wait ; 

My  soul !  disdain  to  fear  ; 
The  righteous  Judge  is  at  the  gate, 

And  thy  redemption  near. 


62  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  XXIX. 

Give  glory  to  God  in  the  highest !  give  praise, 
Ye  noble,  ye  mighty,  with  joyful  accord ; 

All-wise  are  his  counsels,  all-perfect  his  ways ; 
In  the  beauty  of  holiness  worship  the  Lord  ! 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  on  the  ocean  is  known, 
The  God  of  eternity  thundereth  abroad  ; 

The  voice  of  the  Lord,  from  the  depth  of  his  throne, 
Is  terror  and  power ; — all  nature  is  aw'd. 

At  the  voice  of  the  Lord  the  cedars  are  bow'd, 
And  towers  from  their  base  into  ruin  are  hurl'd  ; 

The  voice  of  the  Lord,  from  the  dark-bosom'd  cloud, 
Dissevers  the  lightning  in  flames  o'er  the  world. 

See  Lebanon  bound,  like  the  kid  on  his  rocks, 
And  wild  as  the  unicorn  Sirion  appear : 

The  wilderness  quakes  with  the  resonant  shocks ; 
The  hinds  cast  their  young  in  the  travail  of  fear. 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  through  the  calm  of  the  wood 
Awakens  its  echoes,  strikes  light  through  its  caves  ; 

The  Lord  sitteth  King  on  the  turbulent  flood ; 

The  winds  are  his  servants,  his  servants  the  waves. 

The  Lord  is  the  strength  of  his  people  ;  the  Lord 
Gives  health  to  his  people,  and  peace  evermore ; 

Then  throng  to  his  temple,  his  glory  record, 
But,  oh !  when  he  speaketh,  in  silence  adore. 


PSALM  XXX. 

Yea,  I  will  extol  Thee, 
Lord  of  life  and  light ! 

For  thine  arm  upheld  me, 
Turn'd  my  foes  to  flight : 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


I  implored  thy  succour, 

Thou  wert  swift  to  save, 
Heal  my  wounded  spirit, 

Bring  me  from  the  grave. 

Sing,  ye  saints,  sing  praises  ! 

Call  his  love  to  mind : 
For  a  moment  angry, 

But  for  ever  kind  : 
Grief  may,  like  a  stranger, 

Through  the  night  sojourn, 
Yet  shall  joy  to-morrow 

With  the  sun  return. 

In  my  wealth  I  vaunted, 

"  Naught  shall  move  me  hence  ;" 
Thou  hadst  made  my  mountain 

Strong  in  thy  defence  : 
—Then  thy  face  was  hidden, 

Trouble  laid  me  low, 
"Lord,"  I  cried,  most  humbly, 

"  Why  forsake  me  so  ? 

"  Would  my  blood  appease  Thee, 

In  atonement  shed  ? 
Can  the  dust  give  glory, — 

Praise  employ  the  dead  ? 
Hear  me,  Lord  !  in  mercy ; 

God,  my  helper,  hear  ;" 
— Long  Thou  didst  not  tarry, 

Help  and  health  were  near. 

Thou  hast  turn'd  my  mourning 

Into  minstrelsy, 
Girded  me  with  gladness, 

Set  from  thraldom  free  : 
Thee  my  ransom'd  powers 

I  lenceforth  shall  adore, — 
Thee,  my  great  Deliverer, 

Bless  for  evermore  ! 


64  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  XXXIX. 

Lord  !  let  me  know  mine  end, 
My  days,  how  brief  their  date, 

That  I  may  timely  comprehend 
How  frail  my  best  estate. 

My  life  is  but  a  span, 

Mine  age  as  naught  with  Thee  ; 
Man,  in  his  highest  honour,  man 

Is  dust  and  vanity. 

A  shadow  even  in  health, 

Disquieted  with  pride, 
Or  rack'd  with  care,  he  heaps  up  wealth 

Which  unknown  heirs  divide. 

What  seek  I  now,  O  Lord  ? 

My  hope  is  in  thy  name  ; 
Blot  out  my  sins  from  thy  record, 

Nor  give  me  up  to  shame. 

Dumb  at  thy  feet  I  lie, 

For  Thou  hast  brought  me  low : 
Remove  thy  judgments,  lest  I  die  ; 

I  faint  beneath  thy  blow. 

At  thy  rebuke,  the  bloom 

Of  man's  vain  beauty  flies  ; 
And  grief  shall,  like  a  moth,  consume 

All  that  delights  our  eyes. 

Have  pity  on  my  fears, 

Hearken  to  my  request, 
Turn  not  in  silence  from  my  tears, 

But  give  the  mourner  rest. 

A  stranger,  Lord !  with  Thee, 

I  walk  on  pilgrimage, 
Where  all  my  fathers  once,  like  me, 

Sojourn'd  from  age  to  age. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


O  spare  me  yet,  I  pray  ! 

Awhile  my  strength  restore, 
Ere  I  am  summon'd  hence  away, 

And  seen  on  earth  no  more. 


PSALM  XLIL— No.  1. 

As  the  hart,  with  eager  looks, 
Panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 
So  my  soul,  athirst  for  Thee. 
Pants  the  living  God  to  see : 
When,  O  when,  with  filial  fear, 
Lord  !  shall  I  to  Thee  draw  near  ? 

Tears  my  food  by  night,  by  day 
Grief  consumes  my  strength  away  ; 
While  his  craft  the  Tempter  plies, 
"  Where  is  now  thy  God  ?"  he  cries  ; 
This  would  sink  me  to  despair, 
But  I  pour  my  soul  in  prayer. 

For  in  happier  times  I  went 
Where  the  multitude  frequent : 
I,  with  them,  was  wont  to  bring 
Homage  to  thy  courts,  my  King ! 
I,  with  them,  was  wont  to  raise 
Festal  hymns  on  holy  days. 

Why  art  thou  cast  down,  my  soul  ? 
God,  thy  God,  shall  make  thee  whole  : 
Why  art  thou  disquieted  ? 
God  shall  lift  thy  fallen  head  ; 
And  his  countenance  benign 
Be  the  saving  health  of  thine. 


6G  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  XLIL— No.  2. 

Hearken,  Lord,  to  my  complaints, 

For  my  soul  within  me  faints  ; 

Thee,  far  off,  I  call  to  mind, 

In  the  land  I  left  behind, 

Where  the  streams  of  Jordan  floAv, 

Where  the  heights  of  Hermon  glow. 

Tempest-tost,  my  failing  bark 
Founders  on  the  ocean  dark  ; 
Deep  to  deep  around  me  calls, 
With  the  rush  of  water-falls  ; 
While  I  plunge  to  lower  cav<  B, 
Overwhelin'd  by  all  thy  waves. 

Once  the  morning's  earliest  light 
Brought  thy  mercy  to  my  sight, 
And  my  wakeful  song  was  heard 
Later  than  the  evening  bird  ; 
Hast  Thou  all  my  prayers  forgot? 
Dost  Thou  scorn,  or  hear  them  not  \ 

Why,  my  soul,  art  thou  perplex'd  ? 
Why  with  faithless  trouble  vex'd  ? 
1  [ope  in  ( rod,  whose  saving  name 
Thou  shah  joyfully  proclaim. 

When  his  countenance  shall  shine 

Through  the  clouds  that  darken  thine. 


PSALM  XI  ,111. — No.  3. 

[con  i  im  v  [ION    OF    PSALM    xi.  11.] 

.ii  doe  me,  Lord,  in  righteousn 
Plead  for  me  to  my  distr 

(  rood  and  merciful  Thou  art, 

Bind  this  bleeding,  broken  heart  : 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  67 


Cast  me  not  despairing  hence, 
Be  thy  love  my  confidence. 

Send  thy  light  and  truth  to  guide 
Me,  too  prone  to  turn  aside, 
On  thy  holy  hill  to  rest, 
In  thy  tabernacles  blest ; 
There,  to  God,  my  chiefest  joy, 
Praise  shall  all  my  powers  employ. 

Why,  my  soul,  art  thou  dismay'd  ? 
Why  of  earth  or  hell  afraid  ? 
Trust  in  God  ; — disdain  to  yield, 
While  o'er  thee  He  casts  his  shield, 
And  his  countenance  divine 
Sheds  the  lisrht  of  Heaven  on  thine. 


PSALM  XL VI.— No.  1. 

God  is  our  refuge  and  defence, 

In  trouble  our  unfailing  aid  ; 
Secure  in  his  omnipotence, 

What  foe  can  make  our  soul  afraid  ? 

Yea,  though  the  earth's  foundations  rock, 
And  mountains  down  the  gulf  be  hurl'd, 

His  people  smile  amid  the  shock, 

They  look  beyond  this  transient  world. 

There  is  a  river  pure  and  bright, 

Whose  streams  make  glad  the  heavenly  plains ; 
Where,  in  eternity  of  light, 

The  city  of  our  God  remains. 

Built  by  the  word  of  his  command, 

With  his  unclouded  presence  blest, 
Firm  as  his  throne  the  bulwarks  stand  j 

There  is  our  home,  our  hope,  our  rest. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Thither  let  fervent  faith  aspire  ; 

Our  treasure  and  our  heart  be  there : 
Oh  for  a  seraph's  wing  of  fire  ! 

No, — on  the  mightier  wings  of  prayer, — 

We  reach  at  once  the  last  retreat, 

And,  ranged  among  the  ransom'd  throng, 

Fall  with  the  Elders  at  his  feet, 

Whose  name  alone  inspires  their  song. 

Ah,  soon,  how  soon  !  our  spirits  droop  ; 

Unwont  the  air  of  heaven  to  breathe  : 
Yet  God  in  very  deed  will  stoop, 

And  dwell  Himself  with  men  beneath. 


Come  to  thy  living  temples,  then, 
As  in  the  ancient  times  appear ; 

Let  earth  be  paradise  again, 

And  man,  O  God  !  thine  image  here. 


PSALM  XLVL— No.  2. 

Come  and  behold  the  works  of  God, 

What  desolations  he  will  make ; 
In  vengeance  when  He  wields  his  rod, 

The  heathen  rage,  their  kingdoms  quake : 
He  utters  forth  his  voice  ; — 'tis  felt ; 
Like  wax  the  world's  foundations  melt ; 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  in  the  field, 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  shield. 


Again  he  maketh  wars  to  cease, 

He  breaks  the  bow,  unpoints  the  spear, 
And  burns  the  chariot ; — joy  and  peace 
In  all  his  glorious  march  appear : 
Silence,  O  Earth  !  thy  Maker  own  ; 
Ye  Gentiles,  He  is  God  alone  ; 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  in  the  field, 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  shield. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  XL VII. 

Extol  the  Lord,  the  Lord  most  high, 

King  over  all  the  earth  ; 
Exalt  his  triumphs  to  the  sky 

In  songs  of  sacred  mirth. 

Where'er  the  sea-ward  rivers  run, 

His  banner  shall  advance, 
And  every  realm  beneath  the  sun 

Be  his  inheritance. 

God  is  gone  up  with  loud  acclaim, 
And  trumpets'  tuneful  voice  ; 

Sing  praise,  sing  praises  to  his  name  ; 
Sing  praises,  and  rejoice  ! 

Sing  praises  to  our  God  !  sing  praise 

To  every  creature's  King  ! 
His  wondrous  works,  his  glorious  ways, 

All  tongues,  all  kindred  sing. 

God  sits  upon  his  holy  throne, 
God  o'er  the  heathen  reigns  ; 

His  truth  through  all  the  world  is  known, 
That  truth  his  throne  sustains. 

Princes  around  his  footstool  throng, 

Kings  in  the  dust  adore  ; 
Earth  and  her  shields  to  God  belong : 

Sing  praises  evermore ! 


PSALM  XLVIII. 

Jehovah  is  great,  and  great  be  his  praise ; 

In  the  city  of  God  He  is  King; 
Proclaim  ye  his  triumphs  in  jubilant  lays, 

On  the  mount  of  his  holiness  simr. 


70  SONGS    OF    XION. 


The  joy  of  the  earth,  from  her  beautiful  height, 

Is  Zion's  impregnable  hill ; 
The  Lord  in  her  temple  still  taketh  delight, 

God  reigns  in  her  palaces  still. 

At  the  sight  of  her  splendour,  the  kings  of  the  earth 
Grew  pale  with  amazement  and  dread ; 

Fear  seized  them  like  pangs  of  a  premature  birth ; 
They  came,  they  beheld  her,  and  fled. 

Thou  breakest  the  ships  from  the  sea-circled  climes, 
When  the  storm  of  thy  jealousy  lowers  ; 

As  our  fathers  have  told  of  thy  deeds,  in  their  times, 
So,  Lord,  have  we  witness'd  in  ours. 

In  the  midst  of  thy  temple,  O  God  !  hath  our  mind 

Remember'd  thy  mercy  of  old  ; 
Let  thy  name,  like  thy  praise,  to  no  realm  be  confined ; 

Thy  power  may  all  nations  behold. 

Let  the  daughters  of  Judah  be  glad  for  thy  love, 

The  mountain  of  Zion  rejoice, 
For  Thou  wilt  establish  her  seat  from  above, 

— Wilt  make  her  the  throne  of  thy  choice. 

Go,  walk  about  Zion,  and  measure  the  length, 
Her  walls  and  her  bulwarks  mark  well ; 

Contemplate  her  palaces,  glorious  in  strength, 
Her  towers  and  their  pinnacles  tell. 

Then  say  to  your  children : — Our  stronghold  is  tried  ; 

This  God  is  our  God  to  the  end  ; 
His  people  for  ever  his  counsels  shall  guide, 

His  arm  shall  for  ever  defend. 


PSALM  LI. 

Have  mercy  on  me,  O  my  God ! 

In  loving-kindness  hear  my  prayer ; 
Withdraw  the  terror  of  thy  rod  ; 

Lord !  in  thy  tender  mercy,  spare. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Offences  rise  where'er  [  look  ; 

But  I  confess  their  guilt  to  Thee : 
Blot  my  transgressions  from  thy  book, 

Cleanse  me  from  mine  iniquity. 

Whither  from  vengeance  can  I  run  ? 

Just  are  thy  judgments,  Lord,  and  right 
For  all  the  evil  I  have  done, 

I  did  it  only  in  thy  sight. 

Shapen  in  frailty,  born  in  sin, 
From  error  how  shall  I  depart  ? 

Lo,  thou  requirest  truth  within  ; 

Lord  !  write  thy  truth  upon  my  heart. 

Me  through  the  blood  of  sprinkling  make 
Pure  from  defilement,  white  as  snow; 

Heal  me  for  my  Redeemer's  sake; 
Then  joy  and  gladness  I  shall  know. 

A  perfect  heart  in  me  create, 
Renew  my  soul  in  innocence  ; 

Cast  not  the  suppliant  from  thy  gate, 
Nor  take  thine  Holy  Spirit  hence. 

Thy  consolations,  as  of  old, 

Now  to  my  troubled  mind  restore  ; 
By  thy  free  Spirit's  might  uphold 

And  guide  my  steps,  to  fall  no  more. 
Then  sinners  will  I  teach  thy  ways, 

And  rebels  to  thy  sceptre  bring ; 
— Open  my  lips,  O  God  !  in  praise, 

So  shall  my  mouth  thy  goodness  sing. 

Not  streaming  blood,  nor  purging  fire, 

Thy  righteous  anger  can  appease  ; 
Burnt-offerings  thou  dost  not  require, 

Or  gladly  I  would  render  these. 
The  broken  heart  in  sacrifice, 

Alone  may  thine  acceptance  meet; 
My  heart,  O  God  !  do  not  despise, 

Broken  and  contrite,  at  thy  feet. 


72  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  LXIII. 

O  God  !  Thou  art  my  God  alone, 
Early  to  Thee  my  soul  shall  cry ; 

A  pilgrim  in  a  land  unknown, 

A  thirsty  land  whose  springs  are  dry. 

Oh  that  it  were  as  it  hath  been, 
When,  praying  in  the  holy  place, 

Thy  power  and  glory  I  have  seen, 

And  mark'd  the  footsteps  of  thy  grace  ! 

Yet,  through  this  rough  and  thorny  maze, 
I  follow  hard  on  Thee,  my  God  ! 

Thine  hand  unseen  upholds  my  ways, 
I  safely  tread  where  Thou  hast  trod. 

Thee,  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
When  I  remember  on  my  bed, 

Thy  presence  makes  the  darkness  light, 
Thy  guardian  wings  are  round  my  head. 

Better  than  life  itself  thy  love, 

Dearer  than  all  beside  to  me  ; 
For  whom  have  I  in  heaven  above, 

Or  what  on  earth  compared  with  Thee  ? 

Praise  with  my  heart,  my  mind,  my  voice, 

For  all  thy  mercy  I  will  give  ; 
My  soul  shall  still  in  God  rejoice, 

My  tongue  shall  bless  Thee  while  I  live. 


PSALM  LXIX. 

God  !  be  merciful  to  me, 
For  my  spirit  trusts  in  Thee, 
And  to  Thee,  her  refuge,  springs : 
Be  the  shadow  of  thy  wings 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  73 


Round  the  trembling  sinner  cast, 
Till  the  storm  is  overpast. 

From  the  water-floods  that  roll 
Deep  and  deeper  round  my  soul, 
Me,  thine  arm  almighty  take, 
For  thy  loving-kindness*  sake  : 
If  thy  truth  from  me  depart, 
Thy  rebuke  would  break  my  heart. 

Foes  increase,  they  close  me  round, 
Friend  nor  comforter  is  found  ; 
Sore  temptations  now  assail, 
Hope,  and  strength,  and  courage  fail ; 
Turn  not  from  thy  servant's  grief, 
Hasten,  Lord  !  to  my  relief. 

Poor  and  sorrowful  am  I ; 
Set  me,  O  my  God  !  on  high  : 
Wonders  Thou  for  me  hast  wrought ; 
Nigh  to  death  my  soul  is  brought ; 
Save  me,  Lord  !  in  mercy  save, 
Lest  I  sink  below  the  grave. 


PSALM  LXX. 

Hasten,  Lord,  to  my  release, 
Haste  to  help  me,  O  my  God  ! 

Foes,  like  armed  bands,  increase  ; 
Turn  them  back  the  way  they  trod. 

Dark  temptations  round  me  press, 
Evil  thoughts  my  soul  assail  ; 

Doubts  and  fears,  in  my  distress, 
Rise,  till  flesh  and  spirit  fail. 

Those  that  seek  Thee  shall  rejoice  ; 
I  am  bow'd  with  misery  ; 


VOI-.  II. 


74  SONGS    OF    7I0N. 


Yet  I  make  thy  law  my  choice ; 
Turn,  my  God  !  and  look  on  me. 

Thou  mine  only  Helper  art, 
My  Redeemer  from  the  grave  ; 

Strength  of  my  desiring  heart, 
Do  not  tarry,  haste  to  save  ! 


PSALM  LXXI. 

Lord  !  I  have  put  my  trust  in  Thee, 
Turn  not  my  confidence  to  shame  ; 

Thy  promise  is  a  rock  to  me, 
A  tower  of  refuge  is  thy  name. 

Thou  hast  upheld  me  from  the  womb ; 

Thou  wert  my  strength  and  hope  in  youth  ; 
Now,  trembling,  bending  o'er  the  tomb, 

I  lean  upon  thine  arm  of  truth. 

Though  I  have  long  outlived  my  peers, 
And  stand  amid  the  world  alone, 

(A  stranger,  left  by  former  years,) 

I  know  my  God, — by  Him  am  known. 

Cast  me  not  off  in  mine  old  age, 
Forsake  me  not  in  my  last  hour ; 

The  foe  hath  not  foregone  his  rage, 
The  Hon  ravens  to  devour. 

Not  far,  my  God,  not  far  remove  : 

Sin  and  the  world  still  spread  their  snares  ; 
Stand  by  me  now,  or  they  will  prove 

Too  crafty  yet  for  my  gray  hairs. 

Me,  through  what  troubles  hast  Thou  brought ! 

Me,  with  what  consolations  crown'd  ! 
Now  be  thy  last  deliverance  wrought ; 

My  soul  in  peace  with  Thee  be  found  ! 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  LXXII. 

Hail  to  the  Lord's  anointed  ! 

Great  David's  greater  Son  : 
Hail,  in  the  time  appointed, 

His  reign  on  eartli  begun  ! 
He  comes  to  break  oppression, 

To  let  the  captive  free  ; 
To  take  away  transgression, 

And  rule  in  equity. 

He  comes,  with  succour  speedy, 

To  those  who  suffer  wrong ; 
To  help  the  poor  and  needy, 

And  bid  the  weak  be  strong; 
To  give  them  songs  for  sighing, 

Their  darkness  turn  to  light, 
Whose  souls,  condemn'd  and  dying, 

Were  precious  in  his  sight. 

ich  shall  He  be  feared, 

While  sun  and  moon  endure, 
Beloved,  obey'd,  revered  ; 

For  He  shall  judge  the  poor, 
Through  changing  generations, 

With  justice,  mercy,  truth, 
While  stars  maintain  their  stations, 

Or  moons  renew  their  youth. 

He  shall  come  down,  like  showers 

Upon  the  fruitful  earth, 
And  love,  joy,  hope,  like  flowers, 

Spring  in  his  path  to  birth  ; 
Before  Him,  on  the  mountains, 

Shall  Peace  the  herald  go; 
And  righteousness  in  fountains 

From  hill  to  valley  flow. 

Arabia's  desert-ranger, 

To  I  liiu  shall  how  the  knee  ; 


76  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


The  Ethiopian  stranger 

His  glory  come  to  see ; 
With  offerings  of  devotion, 

Ships  from  the  isles  shall  meet 
To  pour  the  wealth  of  ocean 

In  tribute  at  his  feet. 

Kings  shall  fall  down  before  Him, 

And  gold  and  incense  bring ; 
All  nations  shall  adore  Him, 

His  praise  all  people  sing  ; 
For  He  shall  have  dominion 

O'er  river,  sea,  and  shore, 
Far  as  the  eagle's  pinion 

Or  dove's  light  wing  can  soar. 

For  Him  shall  prayer  unceasing, 

And  daily  vows  ascend  ; 
His  kingdom  still  increasing, 

A  kingdom  without  end  ; 
The  mountain-dews  shall  nourish 

A  seed  in  weakness  sown, 
Whose  fruit  shall  spread  and  flourish, 

And  shake  like  Lebanon. 

O'er  every  foe  victorious, 

He  on  his  throne  shall  rest, 
From  age  to  age  more  glorious, 

All-blessing  and  all-blest ; 
The  tide  of  time  shall  never 

His  covenant  remove ; 
His  name  shall  stand  for  ever : 

That  name  to  us  is — Love. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  LXXIII. 

Truly  the  Lord  is  good  to  those, 

The  pure  in  heart,  who  love  his  name ; 

But  as  for  me,  temptation  ros 

And  well-nigh  cast  me  down  to  shame. 

For  I  was  envious  at  their  state, 

When  I  beheld  the  wicked  rise, 
And  flourish  in  their  pride  elate, 

No  fear  of  death  before  their  eyes. 

Not  troubled  they,  as  others  are, 

Nor  plagued,  with  all  their  vain  pretence ; 
Pride  like  a  chain  of  gold  they  wear, 

And  clothe  themselves  with  violence. 

Swoln  are  their  eyes  with  wine  and  hist, 
For  more  than  heart  can  wish  have  they; 

In  fraud  and  tyranny  they  trust 
To  make  the  multitude  their  prey. 

Their  mouth  assails  the  heavens ;  their  tongue 
Walks  arrogantly  through  the  earth  ; 

Pleasure's  full  cups  to  them  are  wrung  ; 
They  reel  in  revelry  and  mirth. 

"  Who  is  the  Lord,  that  we  should  fear 

Lest  He  our  dark  devices  know  ? 
Who  the  Most  High,  that  He  should  hear, 

Or  heed,  the  words  of  men  below  ?" 

Thus  cry  the  mockers,  flush'd  with  health, 
Exulting  while  their  joys  increase  : 

These  are  th'  ungodly; — men,  whose  wealth 
Flows  like  a  river,  ne'er  to  cease. 

And  have  I  cleansed  my  heart  in  vain, 
And  wash'd  in  innocence  my  hands? 

All  day  afflicted,  I  complain, 

All  night  I  mourn  in  straitening  bands. 


78  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Too  painful  this  for  me  to  view, 
Till  to  thy  temple,  Lord,  I  went, 

And  then  their  fearful  end  I  knew, 
How  suddenly  their  light  is  spent. 

Surely,  in  slippery  places  set, 

Down  to  perdition  these  are  hurl'd ; 

Snared  in  the  toils  of  their  own  net, 
A  spectacle  to  all  the  world. 

As,  from  a  dream  when  one  awakes, 
The  phantoms  of  the  brain  take  flight ; 

So,  when  thy  wrath  in  thunder  breaks, 
Their  image  shall  dissolve  in  night. 

Abash'd,  my  folly  then  I  saw  ; 

I  seem'd  before  Thee  like  a  brute  ; 
Smit  to  the  heart,  o'erwhelm'd  with  awe, 

I  bow'd,  and  worshipp'd,  and  was  mute. 

Yet  Thou  art  ever  at  my  side  ; 

O  !  still  uphold  me,  and  defend  ; 
Me  by  thy  counsel  Thou  shalt  guide, 

And  bring  to  glory  in  the  end. 

Whom  have  I,  Lord  !  in  heaven  but  Thee  ? 

On  earth  shall  none  divide  my  heart ; 
Then  fail  my  flesh,  my  spirit  flee, 

Thou  mine  eternal  portion  art. 


PSALM  LXXVII. 

In  time  of  tribulation, 

Hear,  Lord  !  my  feeble  cries  ; 
With  humble  supplication, 

To  Thee  my  spirit  flies  : 
My  heart  with  grief  is  breaking, 

Scarce  can  my  voice  complain ; 
Mine  eyes,  with  tears  kept  waking, 

Still  watch  and  weep  in  vain. 


SONGS    OF    7AUS.  79 


The  days  of  old,  in  vision, 

Bring  vanish'd  bliss  to  view  ; 
The  years  of  lost  fruition 

Their  joys  in  pangs  renew  : 
Remember'd  songs  of  gladness, 

Through  night's  lone  silence  brought, 
Strike  notes  of  deeper  sadness, 

And  stir  desponding  thought. 

Hath  God  cast  off  for  ever  ? 

Can  time  his  truth  impair  ? 
His  tender  mercy,  never 

Shall  I  presume  to  share  ? 
Hath  He  his  loving-kindness 

Shut  up  in  endless  wrath  ? 
— No ; — this  is  my  own  blindness, 

That  cannot  see  his  path. 

I  call  to  recollection 

The  years  of  his  right  hand ; 
And,  strong  in  his  protection, 

Again  through  faith  I  stand : 
Thy  deeds,  O  Lord  !  are  wonder ; 

Holy  are  all  thy  ways  ; 
The  secret  place  of  thunder 

Shall  utter  forth  thy  praise. 

Thee,  with  the  tribes  assembled, 

O  God  !  the  billows  saw  ; 
They  saw  Thee,  and  they  trembled, 

Turn'd,  and  stood  still,  with  awe  : 
The  clouds  shot  hail — they  lighten'd  ; 

The  earth  reel'd  to  and  fro ; 
Thy  fiery  pillar  brighten'd 

The  gulf  of  gloom  below. 

Thy  way  is  in  great  waters, 
Thy  footsteps  are  not  known  ; 

Let  Adam's  sens  and  daughters 
Confide  in  Thee  alone: 


80  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Through  the  wild  sea  Thou  leddest 

Thy  chosen  flock  of  yore  ; 
Still  on  the  waves  Thou  treadest, 

And  thy  redeem'd  pass  o'er. 


PSALM  LXXX. 

Of  old,  O  God  !  thine  own  right  hand 
A  pleasant  vine  did  plant  and  train  ; 

Above  the  hills,  o'er  all  the  land. 

It  sought  the  sun,  and  drank  the  rain. 

Its  boughs  like  goodly  cedars  spread, 
Forth  to  the  river  went  the  root ; 

Perennial  verdure  crown'd  its  head. 
It  bore,  in  every  season,  fruit. 

That  vine  is  desolate  and  torn, 
Its  scions  in  the  dust  are  laid  ; 

Rank  o'er  the  ruin  springs  the  thorn, 
The  wild  boar  wallows  in  the  shade. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts  !  thine  ear  incline, 
Change  into  songs  thy  people's  fears; 

Return,  and  visit  this  thy  vine. 
Revive  thy  work  amidst  the  years. 

The  plenteous  and  continual  dew 
Of  thy  rich  blessing  here  descend  ; 

So  shall  thy  vino  its  leaf  renew, 
Till  o'er  the  earth  its  branches  bond. 

Then  shall  it  flourish  wide  and  far. 

While  realms  beneath  its  shadow  rest ; 
The  morning  and  the  evening  star 

Shall  mark  its  bounds  from  oast  to  west. 

So  Bhall  thine  enemies  be  dumb, 
Thy  banish'd  ones  do  more  enslaved, 

The  fulness  of  the  <  tentiles  cou\c. 
And  Israel's  youngest  born  be  saved. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  81 


PSALM  LXXXIV. 

How  amiable,  how  fair, 

O  Lord  of  Hosts  !  to  me 
Thy  tabernacles  are  ! 

My  flesh  cries  out  for  Thee  ; 
My  heart  and  soul,  with  heaven-ward  fire 
To  Thee,  the  living  God,  aspire. 

The  sparrow  here  finds  place 

To  build  her  little  nest ; 
The  swallow's  wandering  race 

Hither  return  and  rest ; 
Beneath  thy  roof  their  young  ones  cry, 
And  round  thine  altar  learn  to  fly. 

Thrice-blessed  they  who  dwell 

Within  thine  house,  my  God  ! 
Where  daily  praises  swell, 

And  still  the  floor  is  trod 
By  those,  who  in  thy  presence  bow, 
By  those,  whose  King  and  God  art  Thou. 

Through  Baca's  arid  vale, 

As  pilgrims  when  they  pass, 
The  well-springs  never  fail, 

Fresh  rain  renews  the  grass  ; 
From  strength  to  strength  they  journey  still, 
Till  all  appear  on  Zion's  hill. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts  !  give  ear, 

A  gracious  answer  yield  ; 
O  God  of  Jacob  !  hear  ; 

Behold,  O  God  !  our  shield  ; 
Look  on  thine  own  Anointed  One, 
And  save  through  thy  beloved  Son. 

Lord  !  I  would  rather  stand 

A  keeper  at  thy  gate, 
Than  on  the  king's  right  hand 

In  tents  of  worldly  state  ; 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


One  day  within  thy  courts,  one  day, 
Is  worth  a  thousand  cast  away. 

God  is  a  sun  of  light, 

Glory  and  grace  to  shed ; 
God  is  a  shield  of  might, 

To  guard  the  faithful  head : 
O  Lord  of  Hosts  !  how  happy  he, 
The  man  who  puts  his  trust  in  Thee  ! 


PSALM  XC. 

Lord  !  Thou  hast  been  thy  people's  rest 
Through  all  their  generations, 

Their  refuge  when  by  danger  prest, 
Their  hope  in  tribulations  ; 

Thou,  ere  the  mountains  sprang  to  birth, 

Or  ever  thou  hadst  form'd  the  earth, 
Art  God  from  everlasting  ! 

The  sons  of  men  return  to  clay, 
When  Thou  the  word  hast  spoken, 

As  with  a  torrent  borne  away, 
Gone  like  a  dream  when  broken : 

A  thousand  years  are,  in  thy  sight, 

But  as  a  watch  amid  the  night, 
Or  yesterday  departed. 

At  morn,  we  flourish  like  the  grass 
With  dew  and  sunbeams  lighted, 

Eut  ere  the  cool  of  evening  pass, 
The  rich  array  is  blighted : 

Thus  do  thy  chastisements  consume 

Youth's  tender  leaf  and  beauty's  bloom  ; 
We  fade  at  thy  displeasure. 

Our  life  is  like  the  transient  breath 
That  tells  a  mournful  story  ; 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Early  or  late,  stopt  short  by  death  ; 

And  where  is  all  our  glory  ? 
Our  clays  are  threescore  years  and  ten, 
And  if  the  span  be  lengthen'd  then, 

Their  strength  is  toil  and  sorrow. 

Lo  !  thou  hast  set  before  thine  eyes 

All  our  misdeeds  and  errors  ; 
Our  secret  sins  from  darkness  rise, 

At  thine  awakening  terrors  : 
Who  shall  abide  the  trying  hour? 
Who  knows  the  thunder  of  thy  power  ? 

We  flee  unto  thy  mercy. 

Lord  !  teach  us  so  to  mark  our  days, 
That  we  may  prize  them  duly ; 

So  guide  our  feet  in  Wisdom's  ways, 
That  we  may  love  Thee  truly ; 

Return,  O  Lord,  our  griefs  behold, 

And  with  thy  goodness,  as  of  old, 
O  satisfy  us  early  ! 

Restore  our  comforts  as  our  fears, 

Our  joy  as  our  affliction  ; 
Give  to  thy  church,  through  changing  years, 

Increasing  benediction ; 
Thy  glorious  beauty  there  reveal, 
And  with  thy  perfect  image  seal 

Thy  servants  and  their  labours. 


PSALM  XCT. 

Call  Jehovah  thy  salvation, 

Rest  beneath  th'  Almighty's  shade; 
In  his  secret  habitation 

Dwell,  nor  ever  be  dismay'd  : 
There  no  tumult  can  alarm  thee. 

Thou  shalt  dread  no  hidden  snare  ; 


84  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Guile  nor  violence  can  harm  thee, 
In  eternal  safeguard  there. 

From  the  sword  at  noon-day  wasting, 

From  the  noisome  pestilence, 
In  the  depth  of  midnight  blasting, 

God  shall  be  thy  sure  defence : 
Fear  not  thou  the  deadly  quiver, 

When  a  thousand  feel  the  blow ; 
Mercy  shall  thy  soul  deliver, 

Though  ten  thousand  be  laid  low. 

Only  with  thine  eye,  the  anguish 

Of  the  wicked  thou  shalt  see, 
When  by  slow  disease  they  languish, 

When  they  perish  suddenly  : 
Thee,  though  winds  and  waves  be  swelling, 

God,  thine  hope,  shall  bear  through  all ; 
Plague  shall  not  come  nigh  thy  dwelling, 

Thee  no  evil  shall  befall. 

He  shall  charge  his  angel-legions, 

Watch  and  ward  o'er  thee  to  keep, 
Though  thou  walk  through  hostile  legions, 

Though  in  desert-wilds  thou  sleep  : 
On  the  lion  vainly  roaring, 

On  his  young  thy  foot  shall  tread ; 
And,  the  dragon's  den  exploring, 

Thou  shalt  bruise  the  serpent's  head. 

Since,  with  pure  and  warm  affection, 

Thou  on  God  hast  set  thy  love, 
With  the  wings  of  his  protection 

He  will  shield  thee  from  above  : 
Thou  shalt  call  on  Him  in  trouble, 

He  will  hearken,  He  will  save, 
Here  for  grief  reward  thee  double, 

Crown  with  life  beyond  the  grave. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  85 


PSALM  XCIII. 

The  Lord  is  King ; — upon  his  throne 
He  sits  in  garments  glorious  ; 

Or  girds  for  war  his  armour  on, 
In  every  field  victorious  : 

The  world  came  forth  at  his  command ; 

Built  on  his  word,  its  pillars  stand  ; 
They  never  can  be  shaken. 

The  Lord  was  King  ere  time  began, 

His  reign  is  everlasting ; 
When  high  the  floods  in  tumult  ran, 

Their  foam  to  heaven  up-casting, 
He  made  the  raging  waves  his  path ; 
— The  sea  is  mighty  in  its  wrath, 

But  God  on  high  is  mightier. 

Thy  testimonies,  Lord  !  are  sure  ; 

Thy  realm  fears  no  commotion, 
Firm  as  the  earth,  whose  shores  endure 

Th'  eternal  toil  of  ocean  : 
And  Thou  with  perfect  peace  will  bless 
Thy  faithful  flock  ; — for  holiness 

Becomes  thine  house  for  ever. 


PSALM  XCV. 

O  come,  let  us  sing  to  the  Lord, 

In  God  our  salvation  rejoice  ; 
In  psalms  of  thanksgiving  record 

His  praise,  with  one  spirit,  one  voice  ! 
For  Jehovah  is  Kino-,  and  He  reigns, 

The  God  of  all  gods,  on  his  throne ; 
The  strength  of  the  hills  he  maintains, 

The  ends  of  the  earth  are  his  own. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


The  sea  is  Jehovah's  ; — He  made 

The  tide  its  dominion  to  know; 
The  land  is  Jehovah's  ; — He  laid 

Its  solid  foundations  below  : 
Oh  come,  let  us  worship,  and  kneel 

Before  our  Creator,  our  God  ! 
— The  people  who  serve  Him  with  zeal, 

— The  flock  whom  He  guides  with  his  rod. 

As  Moses,  the  fathers  of  old 

Through  the  sea  and  the  wilderness  led, 
His  wonderful  works  we  behold, 

With  manna  from  heaven  are  fed  : 
To-day,  let  us  hearken,  to-day, 

To  the  voice  that  yet  speaks  from  above, 
And  all  his  commandments  obey, 

For  all  his  commandments  are  love. 

His  wrath  let  us  fear  to  provoke, 

To  dwell  in  his  favour  unite  ; 
His  service  is  freedom,  his  yoke 

Is  easy,  his  burden  is  light : 
But,  oh  !  of  rebellion  beware, 

Rebellion,  that  hardens  the  breast, 
Lest  God  in  his  anger  should  swear 

That  we  shall  not  enter  his  rest. 


PSALM  C. 

Be  joyful  in  God,  all  ye  lands  of  the  earth  ! 

Oh,  serve  Him  with  gladness  and  fear  ! 
Exult  in  his  presence  with  music  and  mirth, 

With  love  and  devotion  draw  near. 

For  Jehovah  is  God, — and  Jehovah  alone, 

Creator  and  ruler  o'er  all ; 
And  we  are  his  people,  his  sceptre  we  own ; 

His  sheep,  and  we  follow  his  call. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  83 


Oh,  enter  his  gates  with  thanksgiving  and  song, 
Your  vows  in  his  temple  proclaim ; 

His  praise  with  melodious  accordance  prolong, 
And  bless  his  adorable  name  ! 

For  good  is  the  Lord,  inexpressibly  good, 
And  we  are  the  work"  of  his  hand  ; 

His  mercy  and  truth  from  eternity  stood, 
And  shall  to  eternity  stand. 


PSALM  cm. 

O  my  soul !  with  all  thy  powers, 

Bless  the  Lord's  most  holy  name  ; 
O  my  soul !  till  life's  last  hours, 

Bless  the  Lord,  his  praise  proclaim : 
I         Thine  infirmities  He  heal'd  ; 

He  thy  peace  and  pardon  scal'd. 

He  with  loving-kindness  crown'd  thee, 

Satisfied  thy  mouth  with  good  ; 
From  the  snares  of  death  unbound  thee, 
Eagle-like  thy  youth  renew'd  : 
Rich  in  tender  mercy  He, 
Slow  to  wrath,  to  favour  free. 

He  will  not  retain  displeasure, 

Though  awhile  He  hide  his  face ; 
Nor  his  God-like  bounty  measure 
By  our  merit,  but  his  grace : 

As  the  heaven  the  earth  transcends, 
Over  us  his  care  extends. 

Far  as  east  and  west  are  parted, 

1  !<•  our  sins  hath  sever'd  thus  : 
As  a  father,  loving-hearted, 

Spares  his  son,  He  spareth  us ; 
For  lie  knows  onr  feeble  frame, 
He  remembers  whence  we  came. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Mark  the  field-flower,  where  it  groweth, 

Frail  and  beautiful ; — anon, 
When  the  south-wind  softly  bloweth, 
Look  again, — the  flower  is  gone  ! 
Such  is  man ;  his  honours  pass, 
Like  the  glory  of  the  grass. 

From  eternity,  enduring 

To  eternity, — the  Lord, 
Still  his  people's  bliss  insuring, 
Keeps  his  covenanted  word ; 

Yea,  with  truth  and  righteousness, 
Children's  children  He  will  bless. 

As  in  heaven,  his  throne  and  dwelling, 

King  on  earth  he  holds  his  sway  ; 
Angels  !  ye  in  strength  excelling, 
Bless  the  Lord,  his  voice  obey ; 
All  his  works  beneath  the  pole, 
Bless  the  Lord,  with  thee,  my  soul ! 


PSALM  CIV. 

My  soul !  adore  the  Lord  of  might : 

With  uncreated  glory  crown'd, 
And  clad  in  royalty  of  light, 

He  draws  the  curtain'd  heavens  around ; 
Dark  waters  his  pavilion  form, 
Clouds  are  his  car,  his  wheels  the  storm. 

Lightning  before  Him,  and  behind 
Thunder  rebounding  to  and  fro ; 
He  walks  upon  the  winged  wind, 
And  reins  the  blast,  or  lets  it  go : 

—This  goodly  globe  his  wisdom  plann'd, 
He  fix'd  the  bounds  of  sea  and  land. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


When  o'er  a  guilty  world,  of  old, 

He  summon'd  the  avenging  main, 
At  his  rebuke  the  billows  roll'd 
Back  to  their  parent  gulf  again  ; 

The  mountains  raised  their  joyful  heads, 
Like  new  creations,  from  their  beds. 

Thenceforth  the  self-revolving  tide 
Its  daily  fall  and  flow  maintains ; 
Through  winding  vales  fresh  fountains  glide, 
Leap  from  the  hills,  or  course  the  plains  ; 
There  thirst}-  cattle  throng  the  brink, 
And  the  wild  asses  bend  to  drink. 

Fed  by  the  currents,  fruitful  groves 

Expand  their  leaves,  their  fragrance  fling, 
Where  the  cool  breeze  at  noon-tide  roves, 
And  birds  among  the  branches  sing  ; 
Soft  fall  the  showers  when  day  declines, 
And  sweet  the  peaceful  rainbow,  shines. 

Grass  through  the  meadows,  rich  with  flowers, 

God's  bounty  spreads  for  herds  and  flocks : 
On  Lebanon  his  cedar  towers, 

The  wild  goats  bound  upon  his  rocks ; 
Fowls  in  his  forests  build  their  nests, 
— The  stork  amid  the  pine-tree  rests. 

To  strengthen  man,  condemn'd  to  toil, 
He  fills  with  grain  the  golden  ear ; 
Bids  the  ripe  olive  melt  with  oil, 

And  swells  the  grape,  man's  heart  to  cheer : 
— The  moon  her  tide  of  changing  knows, 
Her  orb  with  lustre  ebbs  and  flows. 

The  sun  goes  down,  the  stars  come  out ; 

I  [e  maketh  darkness,  and  'tis  night; 
Then  roam  the  beasts  of  prey  about, 
The  desert  rings  with  chase  and  flight; 
The  lion,  and  the  lion's  brood, 
Look  up, — and  God  provides  them  food. 


SONGS    OF    /ION. 


Morn  dawns  far  east ;  ere  long  the  sun 

Warms  the  glad  nations  with  his  beams  ; 
Day,  in  their  dens,  the  spoilers  shun, 
And  night  returns  to  them  in  dreams  : 
Man  from  his  couch  to  labour  goes, 
Till  evening  brings  again  repose  ! 

How  manifold  thy  works,  O  Lord  ! 

In  wisdom,  power,  and  goodness  wrought ; 
The  earth  is  with  thy  riches  stored, 
And  ocean  with  thy  wonders  fraught : 
Unfathom'd  caves  beneath  the  deep 
For  Thee  their  hidden  treasures  keep. 

There  go  the  ships,  with  sails  unfurFd, 

By  Thee  directed  on  their  way: 
There,  in  his  own  mysterious  world, 
Leviathan  delights  to  play  ; 

And  tribes  that  range  immensity. 
Unknown  to  man,  are  known  to  Thee. 

By  Thee  alone  the  living  live  : 

Hide  but  thy  face,  their  comforts  fly  ; 
They  gather  what  thy  seasons  give  : 
Take  Thou  away  their  breath,  they  die: 
Send  forth  thy  Spirit  from  above, 
Ami  all  is  life  again,  and  loi e. 

Joy  in  his  works  Jehovah  takes, 

Yet  to  destruction  they  return  : 
I  le  looks  upon  the  earth,  it  quakes  : 

Touches  the  mountains,  and  they  burn: 

— Thou,  ( lod  !  for  ever  art  the  same  : 
I   \.M  is  thine  unchanging  name. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  91 


PSALM  CVIL— No.  1. 

Thank  and  praise  Jehovah's  name, 
For  his  mercies,  firm  and  sure, 

From  eternity  the  same, 
To  eternity  endure. 

Let  the  ransom'd  thus  rejoice, 
Gather' d  out  of  every  land  ; 

As  the  people  of  his  choice, 

Pluck'd  from  the  destroyer's  hand. 

In  the  wilderness  astray, 

Hither,  thither,  while  they  roam, 
Hungry,  fainting  by  the  way, 

Far  from  refuge,  shelter,  home  : — 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  cry, 
He  inclines  a  gracious  ear, 

Sends  deliverance  from  on  high, 
Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 

To  a  pleasant  land  He  brings, 
Where. the  vine  and  olive  grow, 

Where  from  flowery  hills  the  springs 
Through  luxuriant  valleys  flow. 

Oh  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace  ! 


PSALM  CVIL— No.  2. 

They  that  mourn  in  dungeon  gloom, 

Bound  in  iron  and  despair, 
Sentenced  to  a  heavier  doom 

Than  the  pangs  they  suffer  there  ; — 


92  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Foes  and  rebels  once  to  God, 
They  disdain' d  his  high  control ; 

Now  they  feel  his  fiery  rod 

Striking  terrors  through  their  soul. 

Wrung  with  agony,  they  fall 
To  the  dust,  and,  gazing  round, 

Call  for  help  ; — in  vain  they  call, 
Help,  nor  hope,  nor  friend  are  found. 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  cry  ; 

He  inclines  a  gracious  ear, 
Sends  deliverance  from  on  high, 

Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 

He  restores  their  forfeit  breath, 
Breaks  in  twain  the  gates  of  brass, 

From  the  bands  and  grasp  of  death, 
Forth  to  liberty  they  pass. 

Oh  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race  ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace  ! 


PSALM  CVIL— No.  3. 

Fools,  for  their  transgression,  see 
Sharp  disease  their  youth  consume, 

And  their  beauty,  like  a  tree, 
Withering  o'er  an  early  tomb. 

Food  is  loathsome  to  their  taste, 
And  the  eye  revolts  from  light ; 

All  their  joys  to  ruin  haste, 
As  the  sunset  into  night. 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  cry  ; 
He  inclines  a  gracious  ear, 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  93 


Sends  deliverance  from  on  high, 
Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 

He  with  health  renews  their  frame, 
Lengthens  out  their  number1  d  days  ; 

Let  them  glorify  his  name 
With  the  sacrifice  of  praise. 

O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race  ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace. 


PSALM  CVII.— No.  4. 

They  that  toil  upon  the  deep, 
And,  in  vessels  light  and  frail, 

O'er  the  mighty  waters  sweep 
With  the  billow  and  the  gale, — 

Mark  what  wonders  God  performs, 
When  He  speaks,  and  unconfmed, 

Rush  to  battle  all  his  storms 
In  the  chariots  of  the  wind. 

Up  to  heaven  their  bark  is  whirl'd 
On  the  mountain  of  the  wave  ; 

Down  as  suddenly  'tis  hurl'd 
To  th'  abysses  of  the  grave. 

To  and  fro  they  reel,  they  roll, 

As  intoxicate  with  wine  ; 
Terrors  paralyze  their  soul, 

Helm  they  quit,  and  hope  resign. 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  cry  ; 

He  inclines  a  gracious  car. 
Sends  deliverance  from  on  high, 

Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Calm  and  smooth  the  surges  flow, 
And,  where  deadly  lightning  ran, 

God's  own  reconciling  bow 
Metes  the  ocean  with  a  span. 

O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race  ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace. 


PSALM  CVII.— No.  5. 

Let  the  elders  praise  the  Lord, 
Him  let  all  the  people  praise, 

When  they  meet  with  one  accord 
In  his  courts,  on  holy  days. 

God  for  sin  will  vengeance  take, 
Smite  the  earth  with  sore  distress, 

And  a  fruitful  region  make 
As  the  howling  wilderness. 

But  when  mercy  stays  his  hand, 
Famine,  plague,  and  death  depart ; 

Yea,  the  rock,  at  his  command, 
Pours  a  river  from  its  heart. 

There  the  hungry  dwell  in  peace, 
Cities  build,  and  plough  the  ground. 

While  their  flocks  and  herds  increase, 
And  their  corn  and  wine  abound. 

Should  they  yet  rebel, — his  arm 
Lays  their  pride  again  in  dust : 

But  the  poor  he  shields  from  harm, 
And  in  Him  the  righteous  trust. 

Whoso  wisely  marks  his  will, 
Thus  evolving  bliss  from  wo, 

Shall,  redeem'd  from  every  ill, 
All  his  lovinjr-kindness  know. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.                                                 BS 

PSALM  CXI II. 

Servants  of  God  !  in  joyful  lays 
Sing-  ye  the  Lord  Jehovah's  praise  ; 
His  glorious  name  let  all  adore, 
From  age  to  age,  for  evermore. 

Blest  be  that  name,  supremely  blest, 
From  the  sun's  rising  to  its  rest ; 
Above  the  heavens  his  power  is  known, 
Through  all  the  earth  his  goodness  shown. 

Who  is  like  God  ? — so  great,  so  high, 
He  bows  Himself  to  view  the  sky, 
And  yet,  with  condescending  grace, 
Looks  down  upon  the  human  race. 

He  hears  the  uncomplaining  moan 
Of  those  who  sit  and  weep  alone  ; 
He  lifts  the  mourner  from  the  dust, 
And  saves  the  poor  in  him  that  trust. 

Servants  of  God  !  in  joyful  lays 
Sing  ye  the  Lord  Jehovah's  praise  ; 
His  saving  name  let  all  adore, 
From  age  to  age,  for  evermore. 

PSALM  CXVI. 

I  love  the  Lord  ; — He  lent  an  ear 
When  I  for  help  implored  ; 

He  rescued  me  from  all  my  fear ; 
Therefore  I  love  the  Lord. 

Bound  hand  and  foot  with  chains  of  sin, 

Death  dragg'd  me  for  his  prey ; 
The  pit  was  moved  to  take  me  in  ; 

All  hope  was  far  away. 
"                                                          . 

96  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


I  cried,  in  agony  of  mind, 

"  Lord  !  I  beseech  Thee,  save :" 

He  heard  me; — Death  his  prey  resign'd, 
And  Mercy  shut  the  grave. 

Return,  my  soul,  unto  thy  rest, 

From  God  no  longer  roam  ; 
His  hand  hath  bountifully  blest, 

His  goodness  call'd  thee  home. 

What  shall  I  render  unto  Thee, 

My  Saviour  in  distress, 
For  all  thy  benefits  to  me, 

So  great  and  numberless  ? 

This  will  I  do,  for  thy  love's  sake, 
And  thus  thy  power  proclaim  ; 

The  sacramental  cup  I'll  take, 
And  call  upon  thy  name. 

Thou  God  of  covenanted  grace, 

Hear  and  record  my  vow, 
While  in  thy  courts  I  seek  thy  face, 

And  at  thine  altar  bow : — 

Henceforth  to  Thee  myself  I  give ; 

With  single  heart  and  eye, 
To  walk  before  Thee  while  I  live, 

And  bless  Thee  when  I  die. 


PSALM  CXVII. 

All  ye  Gentiles,  praise  the  Lord ; 

All  ye  lands,  your  voices  raise  : 
Heaven  and  earth,  with  loud  accord, 

Praise  the  Lord,  for  ever  praise  ! 

For  his  truth  and  mercy  stand, 
Past,  and  present,  and  to  be, 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  97 


Like  the  years  of  his  right  hand, 
Like  his  own  eternity. 

Praise  Him,  ye  who  know  his  love, 
Praise  Ilim  from  the  depths  beneath, 

Praise  Him  in  the  heights  above ; 
Praise  your  Maker,  all  that  breathe  ! 


PSALM  CXXI. 

Excompass'd  with  ten  thousand  ills, 

Press'd  by  pursuing  foes, 
I  lift  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills, 

From  whence  salvation  flows. 

My  help  is  from  the  Lord,  who  made 
And  governs  earth  and  sky  ; 

I  look  to  his  almighty  aid, 
And  ever-watching  eye. 

— He  who  thy  soul  in  safety  keeps 
Shall  drive  destruction  hence  ; 

The  Lord  thy  keeper  never  sleeps  ; 
The  Lord  is  thy  defence. 

The  sun,  with  his  afflictive  light, 
Shall  harm  thee  not  by  day ; 

Nor  thee  the  moon  molest  by  night 
Along  thy  tranquil  way. 

Thee  shall  the  Lord  preserve  from  sin, 

And  comfort  in  distress  ; 
Thy  going  out  and  coming  in, 

The  Lord  thy  God  shall  bL 


98  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  CXXII. 

Glad  was  my  heart  to  hear 

My  old  companions  say, 
Come — in  the  house  of  God  appear, 

For  'tis  an  holy  day. 

Our  willing  feet  shall  stand 

Within  the  temple  door, 
While  young  and  old,  in  many  a  band, 

Shall  throng  the  sacred  floor. 

Thither  the  tribes  repair, 
Where  all  are  wont  to  meet, 

And,  joyful  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
Bend  at  the  mercy  seat. 

Pray  for  Jerusalem, 

The  city  of  our  God  ; 
The  Lord  from  heaven  be  kind  to  them 

That  love  the  dear  abode. 

Within  these  walls  may  peace 

And  harmony  be  found  ; 
Zion  !  in  all  thy  palaces, 

Prosperity  abound ! 

For  friends  and  brethren  dear, 
Our  prayer  shall  never  cease  ; 

Oft  as  they  meet  for  worship  here, 
God  send  his  people  peace  ! 


PSALM  CXXIV. 

The  Lord  is  on  our  side, 
His  people  now  may  say ; 

The  Lord  is  on  our  side, — or  we 
Had  fallen  a  sudden  prey. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Sin,  Satan,  Death,  and  Hell, 

Like  fire,  against  us  rose  ; 
Then  had  the  flames  consumed  us  quick, 

But  God  repell'd  our  foes. 

Like  water  they  return'd, 

When  wildest  tempests  rave ; 
Then  had  the  floods  gone  o'er  our  head, 

But  God  was  there  to  save. 

From  jeopardy  rcdeem'd, 

As  from  the  lion's  wrath, 
Mercy  and  truth  uphold  our  life, 

And  safety  guards  our  path. 

Our  soul  escaped  the  toils  ; 

As  from  the  fowler's  snare, 
The  bird,  with  disentangled  wings, 

Flits  through  the  boundless  air. 

Our  help  is  from  the  Lord ; 

In  Him  we  will  confide, 
Who  stretch'd  the  heavens,  who  form'd  the  earth 

— The  Lord  is  on  our  side. 


PSALM  CXXV. 

Who  make  the  Lord  of  Hosts  their  tower, 

Shall  like  Mount  Zion  be, 
Immovable  by  mortal  power, 

Built  on  eternity. 

As  round  about  Jerusalem 

The  guardian  mountains  stand, 

So  shall  the  Lord  encompass  them 
Who  hold  by  his  right  hand. 

The  rod  of  wickedness  shall  ne'er 

Against  the  just  prevail, 
Lest  innocence  should  find  a  snare, 

And  tempted  virtue  fail. 


100  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Do  good,  O  Lord  !  do  good  to  those 
Who  cleave  to  Thee  in  heart, 

Who  on  thy  truth  alone  repose, 
Nor  from  thy  law  depart. 

While  rebel  souls,  who  turn  aside, 
Thine  anger  shall  destroy, 

Do  Thou  in  peace  thy  people  guide 
To  thine  eternal  joy. 


PSALM  CXXVI. 

When  God  from  sin's  captivity 
Sets  his  afflicted,  people  free, 
Lost  in  amaze,  their  mercies  seem 
The  transient  raptures  of  a  dream. 

But  soon  their  ransom'd  souls  rejoice, 
And  mirth  and  music  swell  their  voice, 
Till  foes  confess,  nor  dare  condemn, 
"  The  Lord  hath  done  great  things  for  them." 

They  catch  the  strain  and  answer  thus, 
"  The  Lord  hath  done  great  things  for  us  ; 
Whence  gladness  fills  our  hearts,  and  songs, 
Sweet  and  spontaneous,  wake  our  tongues." 

Turn  our  captivity,  O  Lord  ! 
As  southern  rivers,  at  thy  word, 
Bound  from  their  channels,  and  restore 
Plenty,  where  all  was  waste  before. 

Who  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy  ; 
Naught  shall  the  precious  seed  destroy, 
Nor  long  the  weeping  exiles  roam, 
But  bring  their  sheaves  rejoicing  home. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  101 


PSALM  CXXX. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  wo 

To  Thee,  O  Lord  !  I  cry  ; 
Darkness  surrounds  me,  but  I  know 

That  Thou  art  ever  nigh. 

Then  hearken  to  my  voice, 

Give  ear  to  my  complaint ; 
Thou  bidst  the  mourning-  soul  rejoice, 

Thou  comfortest  the  faint. 

I  cast  my  hope  on  Thee, 

Thou  canst,  Thou  wilt  forgive; 
Wert  Thou  to  mark  iniquity, 

Who  in  Thy  sight  could  live  ? 

Humbly  on  Thee  I  wait, 

Confessing  all  my  sin  ; 
Lord  !  I  am  knocking  at  thy  gate  ; 

Open,  and  take  me  in  ! 

Like  them,  whose  longing  eyes 

Watch,  till  the  morning  star 
(Though  late,  and  seen  through  tempests)  rise, 

Heaven's  portals  to  unbar  : 

Like  them  I  watch  and  pray, 

And,  though  it  tarry  long, 
Catch  the  first  gleam  of  welcome  day 

Then  burst  into  a  song. 

Glory  to  God  above  ! 

The  waters  soon  will  cease  ; 
For,  lo  !  the  swift  returning  dove 

Brings  home  the  sign  of  peace. 

Though  storms  his  face  obscure, 
And  dangers  threaten  loud, 

Jehovah's  covenant  is  sure, 
His  bow  is  in  the  cloud. 


102  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  CXXXI. 

Lord  !  for  ever  at  thy  side 
Let  my  place  and  portion  be ; 

Strip  me  of  my  robe  of  pride, 
Clothe  me  with  humility. 

Meekly  may  my  soul  receive 
All  thy  Spirit  hath  reveal 'd  ; 

Thou  hast  spoken, — I  believe, 

Though  the  prophecy  were  seal'd. 

Quiet  as  a  weaned  child, 

Weaned  from  the  mother's  breast ; 
By  no  subtilty  beguiled, 

On  thy  faithful  word  I  rest. 

Saints  !  rejoicing  evermore, 
In  the  Lord  Jehovah  trust ; 

Him  in  all  his  ways  adore, 

Wise,  and  wonderful,  and  just. 


PSALM  CXXXII.— No.  1. 

God  in  his  temple  let  us  meet, 

Low  on  our  knees  before  Him  bend  ; 

Here  hath  He  fix'd  his  mercy-seat, 
Here  on  his  Sabbath  we  attend. 

Arise  into  thy  resting-place, 

Thou,  and  thine  ark  of  strength,  O  Lord  ! 
Shine  through  the  veil,  we  seek  thy  face ; 

Speak,  for  we  hearken  to  thy  word. 

With  righteousness  thy  priests  array  ; 

Joyful  thy  chosen  people  be  ; 
Let  those  who  teach  and  those  who  pray, 

Let  all — be  holiness  to  Thee  ! 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  103 


PSALM  CXXXIL— No.  2. 

Lord  !  for  thy  servant  David's  sake, 
Perform  thine  oath  to  David's  Son; — 

Thy  truth  Thou  never  wilt  forsake  ; — 
Look  on  thine  own  Anointed  One  ! 

The  Lord  in  faithfulness  hath  sworn 
His  throne  for  ever  to  maintain ; 

From  realm  to  realm,  the  sceptre  borne 
Shall  stretch  o'er  earth  Messiah's  reign. 

Zion,  my  chosen  hill  of  old, 

My  rest,  my  dwelling,  my  delight, 

With  loving-kindness  I  uphold, 
Her  walls  are  ever  in  my  sight. 

I  satisfy  her  poor  with  bread, 
Her  tables  with  abundance  bless, 

Joy  on  her  sons  and  daughters  shed, 

And  clothe  her  priests  with  righteousness. 

There  David's  horn  shall  bud  and  bloom, 
The  branch  of  glory  and  renown  ; 

His  foes  my  vengeance  shall  consume  ; 
Him  with  eternal  years  I  crown. 


PSALM  CXXXIII. 

How  beautiful  the  sight 

Of  brethren  who  agree 
In  friendship  to  unite, 

And  bonds  of  charity  ! 
'Tis  like  the  precious  ointment,  shed 
O'er  all  his  robus,  from  Aaron's  head. 

'Tis  like  the  dews  that  fdl 

The  cups  of  Hermon's  flowers; 

Or  Zion's  fruitful  hill, 

Bright  with  the  drops  of  showers. 


101  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


When  mingling  odours  breathe  around, 
And  glory  rests  on  all  the  ground. 

For  there  the  Lord  commands 
Blessings,  a  boundless  store, 

From  his  unsparing  hands  ; 
Yea,  life  for  evermore  ; 

Thrice  happy  they  who  meet  above 

To  spend  eternity  in  love  ! 


PSALM  CXXXIV. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  with  solemn  rite, 
In  hymns  extol  his  name, 

Ye  who,  within  his  house  by  night, 
Watch  round  the  altar's  flame. 

Lift  up  your  hands  amid  the  place 
Where  burns  the  sacred  sign, 

And  pra)r,  that  thus  Jehovah's  face 
O'er  all  the  earth  may  shine. 

From  Zion,  from  his  holy  hill, 
The  Lord  our  Maker  send 

The  perfect  knowledge  of  his  will, 
Salvation  without  end ! 


PSALM  CXXXVII. 

Where  Babylon's  broad  rivers  roll, 
In  exile  we  sat  down  to  weep, 

For  thoughts  of  Zion  o'er  our  soul 
Came,  like  departed  joys,  in  sleep, 

Whose  forms  to  sad  remembrance  rise, 

Though  fled  for  ever  from  our  eyes. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Our  harps  upon  the  willows  hung, 

Where,  worn  with  toil,  our  limbs  reclined ; 

The  chords,  untuned  and  trembling,  rung 
With  mournful  music  on  the  wind  ; 

While  foes,  insulting  o'er  our  wrongs, 

Cried, — "  Sing  us  one  of  Zion's  songs." 

How  can  we  sing  the  songs  we  love, 
Far  from  our  own  delightful  land  ? 

— If  I  prefer  thee  not  above 

My  chiefest  joy,  may  this  right  hand, 

Jerusalem  !  forget  its  skill, 

My  tongue  be  dumb,  my  pulse  be  still ! 


PSALM  CXXXVIII. 

Thee  will  I  praise,  O  Lord  !  in  light, 
Where  seraphim  surround  thy  throne  ; 

With  heart  and  soul,  with  mind  and  might, 
Thee  will  I  worship,  Thee  alone. 

I  bow  toward  thy  holy  place  ; 

For  Thou,  in  mercy  still  the  same, 
Hast  magnified  thy  word  of  grace 

O'er  all  the  wonders  of  thy  name. 

In  peril,  when  I  cried  to  Thee, 

How  did  thy  strength  renew  my  soul ! 

Kings  and  their  realms  might  bend  the  knee, 
Could  I  to  man  reveal  the  whole. 

Thou,  Lord !  above  all  height  art  high, 
Yet  with  the  lowly  wilt  Thou  dwell ; 

Tin1  proud  for  off,  thy  jealous  eye 
Shall  mark,  and  with  a  look  repel. 

Though  in  the  depth  of  trouble  thrown, 
With  grief  I  shall  not  always  strive  ; 

Thou  wilt  thy  suffering  servant  own, 
And  Thou  the  contrite  heart  revive. 


106  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Thy  purpose  then  in  me  fulfil ; 

Forsake  me  not,  for  I  am  thine  ; 
Perfect  in  me  thine  utmost  will ; 

— Whate'er  it  be,  that  will  be  mine  ! 


PSALM  CXXXIX. 

Searcher  of  hearts  !  to  Thee  are  known 
The  inmost  secrets  of  my  breast ; 

At  home,  abroad,  in  crowds,  alone, 
Thou  mark'st  my  rising  and  my  rest, 

My  thoughts  far  off,  through  every  maze, 

Source,  stream,  and  issue, — all  my  ways. 

No  word  that  from  my  mouth  proceeds, 
Evil  or  good,  escapes  thine  ear ; 

Witness  Thou  art  to  all  my  deeds, 
Before,  behind,  for  ever  near : 

Such  knowledge  is  for  me  too  high ; 

I  live  but  in  my  Maker's  eye. 

How  from  thy  presence  should  I  go, 
Or  whither  from  thy  Spirit  flee, 

Since  all  above,  around,  below, 
Exist  in  thine  immensity  ? 

— If  up  to  heaven  I  take  my  way, 

I  meet  Thee  in  eternal  day. 

If  in  the  grave  I  make  my  bed 

With  worms  and  dust,  lo  !  Thou  art  there 
If,  on  the  wings  of  morning  sped, 

Beyond  the  ocean  I  repair, 
I  feel  thine  all-controlling  will, 
And  thy  right  hand  upholds  me  still. 

"  Let  darkness  hide  me,"  if  I  say, 
Darkness  can  no  concealment  be  : 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  107 


Night,  on  thy  rising,  shines  like  day, 

Darkness  and  light  are  one  with  Thee  ; 
For  Thou  mine  embryo-form  didst  view 
Ere  her  own  babe  my  mother  knew. 

In  me  thy  workmanship  display'd, 

A  miracle  of  power  I  stand ; 
Fearfully,  wonderfully  made, 

And  framed  in  secret  by  thy  hand  ; 
I  lived,  ere  into  being  brought, 
Through  thine  eternity  of  thought. 

How  precious  are  thy  thoughts  of  peace, 
O  God,  to  me  !  how  great  the  sum  ! 

New  every  morn,  they  never  cease  ; 

They  were,  they  are,  and  yet  shall  come, 

In  number  and  in  compass  more 

Than  ocean's  sand,  or  ocean's  shore. 

Search  me,  O  God  !  and  know  my  heart ; 

Try  me,  my  secret  soul  survey, 
And  warn  thy  servant  to  depart 

From  every  false  and  evil  way  ; 
So  shall  thy  truth  my  guidance  be 
To  life  and  immortality. 


PSALM  CXLI. 

Lord  !  let  my  prayer  like  incense  rise, 
And  when  I  lift  my  hands  to  Thee, 

As  on  the  evening  sacrifice, 

Look  down  from  heaven,  well-pleased,  on  me. 

Set  Thou  a  watch  to  keep  my  tongue, 

Let  not  my  heart  to  sin  incline  ; 
Save  me  from  men  who  practise  wrong, 

Let  me  not  share  their  mirth  and  wine. 


SONGS    OF    ZION. 


But  let  the  righteous,  when  I  stray, 

Smite  me  in  love  ; — his  strokes  are  kind ; 

His  mild  reproofs,  like  oil,  allay 

The  wounds  they  make,  and  heal  the  mind. 

Mine  eyes  are  unto  Thee,  my  God  ! 

Behold  me  humbled  in  the  dust ; 
I  kiss  the  hand  that  wields  the  rod, 

I  own  thy  chastisements  are  just. 

But  oh  !  redeem  me  from  the  snares 

With  which  the  world  surrounds  my  feet, 

— Its  riches,  vanities,  and  cares, 
Its  love,  its  hatred,  its  deceit. 


PSALM  CXLII. 

I  cried  unto  the  Lord  most  just, 

Most  merciful  in  prayer  ; 
I  cried  unto  Him  from  the  dust, 

I  told  Him  my  despair. 

When  sunk  my  soul  within  me, — then 
Thou  knew'st  the  path  I  chose ; 

Unharm'd  I  pass'd  the  spoiler's  den, 
I  walk'd  through  ambush'd  foes. 

I  look'd  for  friends, — there  was  not  one 

In  sorrow  to  condole  ; 
I  look'd  for  refuge, — there  was  none  ; 

None  cared  for  my  soul. 

I  cried  unto  the  Lord ; — I  said, — 
Thou  art  my  refuge  ;  Thou, 

My  portion  ; — hasten  to  mine  aid  ; 
Hear  and  deliver  now. 

Now,  from  the  dungeon,  from  the  grave, 
Exalt  thy  suppliant's  head ; 

Thy  voice  is  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Revival  to  the  dead. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  109 


PSALM  CXLIII. 

Hear  me,  O  Lord  !  in  my  distress, 
Hear  me  in  truth  and  righteousness  ; 
For,  at  thy  bar  of  judgment  tried, 
None  living  can  be  justified. 

Lord  !  I  have  foes  without,  within, 
The  world,  the  flesh,  indwelling  sin, 
Life's  daily  ills,  temptation's  power, 
And  Satan  roaring  to  devour. 

These,  these  my  fainting  soul  surround, 
My  strength  is  smitten  to  the  ground ; 
Like  those  long  dead,  beneath  their  weight 
Crush 'd  is  my  heart  and  desolate. 

Yet,  in  the  gloom  of  silent  thought, 
I  call  to  mind  what  God  hath  wrought, 
Thy  wonders  in  the  days  of  old, 
Thy  mercies  great  and  manifold. 

Ah !  then  to  Thee  I  stretch  my  hands, 
Like  failing  streams  through  desert-sands  ; 
I  thirst  for  Thee,  as  harvest  plains 
Parch'd  by  the  summer  thirst  for  rains. 

O  !  let  me  not  thus  hopeless  lie, 
Like  one  condemn'd  at  morn  to  die, 
But  with  the  morning  may  I  see 
Thy  loving-kindness  visit  me. 

Teach  me  thy  will,  subdue  my  own  ; 
Thou  art  my  God,  and  Thou  alone ; 
By  thy  good  Spirit  guide  me  still, 
Safe  from  all  foes,  to  Zion's  hill. 

Release  my  soul  from  trouble,  Lord  ! 
Quicken  and  keep  me  by  thy  word  ; 
May  all  its  promises  be  mine  ! 
Be  Thou  my  portion — I  am  thine. 

To 


110  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


PSALM  CXLV. 

The  Lord  is  gracious  to  forgive, 
And  slow  to  let  his  anger  move  ; 
The  Lord  is  good  to  all  that  live, 
And  all  his  tender  mercy  prove. 

Thy  works,  O  God  !  thy  praise  proclaim  ; 
The  saints  thy  wond'rous  deeds  shall  sing, 
Extol  thy  power,  and  to  thy  name 
Homage  from  every  nation  bring. 

Glorious  in  majesty  art  Thou ; 
Thy  throne  for  ever  shall  endure  ; 
Angels  before  thy  footstool  bow, 
Yet  dost  Thou  not  despise  the  poor. 

The  Lord  upholdeth  them  that  fall ; 
He  raiseth  men  of  low  degree  ; 
O  God !  our  health,  the  eyes  of  all, 
Of  all  the  living,  wait  on  Thee. 

Thou  openest  thine  exhaustless  store, 
And  rainest  food  on  every  land  ; 
The  dumb  creation  Thee  adore, 
And  eat  their  portion  from  thy  hand. 

Man,  most  indebted,  most  ingrate, 
Man  only,  is  a  rebel  here  ; 
Teach  him  to  know  Thee,  ere  too  late  ; 
Teach  him  to  love  Thee,  and  to  fear. 


PSALM  CXLVI. 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  from  pole  to  pole ! 
Praise  Thou  the  Lord,  my  soul,  my  soul ! 
Long  as  I  live,  my  voice  shall  raise, 
My  pulse  repeat,  the  song  of  praise. 


SONGS    OF    ZION.  Ill 

In  men,  in  princes,  put  no  trust ; 
Their  breath  goes  forth,  they  turn  to  dust ; 
Then,  fleeting  like  the  flower  of  grass, 
Perish  their  thoughts,  their  glories  pass. 

Thrice  happy  he  whose  heart  can  say 
"  The  God  of  Jacob  is  my  stay  ; 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  my  help  shall  be, 
Who  made  the  heaven,  the  earth,  the  sea." 

The  Lord  avenges  the  opprest, 
He  sends  the  wandering  stranger  rest ; 
The  Lord  unbinds  the  prisoner's  chain, 
He  sets  the  fallen  up  again. 

The  Lord  restores  the  blind  to  sight, 
Gives  strength  to  them  that  have  no  might ; 
The  Lord  relieves,  in  their  distress, 
The  widow  and  the  fatherless. 

The  Lord  supplies  the  poor  with  food, 
He  loves  to  do  the  righteous  good ; 
But  for  the  wicked,  in  his  wrath, 
He  turns  destruction  on  their  path. 

The  Lord  shall  reign  for  evermore, 
Thy  King,  O  Zion  ! — Him  adore  ; 
Let  unborn  generations  raise 
To  God,  thy  God,  the  song  of  praise  ! 


PSALM  CXLVIII. 

Heralds  of  creation  !  cry, 
— Praise  the  Lord,  the  Lord  most  high! 
Heaven  and  earth  !  obey  the  call, 
Praise  the  Lord,  the  Lord  of  all. 

For  He  spake,  and  forth  from  night 
Sprang  the  universe  to  light ; 
He  commanded, — Nature  heard, 
And  stood  fast  upon  his  word. 


112  SONGS    OF    ZION. 


Praise  Him,  all  ye  hosts  above ! 
Spirits  perfected  in  love  ; 
Sun  and  moon  !  your  voices  raise, 
Sing,  ye  stars  !  your  Maker's  praise. 

Earth  !  from  all  thy  depths  below, 
Ocean's  hallelujahs  flow ; 
Lightning,  vapour,  wind,  and  storm, 
Hail  and  snow,  his  will  perform. 

Vales  and  mountains  !  burst  in  song  ; 
Rivers  !  roll  with  praise  along ; 
Clap  your  hands,  ye  trees  !  and  hail 
God,  who  comes  in  every  gale. 

Birds  !  on  wings  of  rapture,  soar, 
Warble  at  his  temple-door ; 
Joyful  sounds,  from  herds  and  flocks, 
Echo  back,  ye  caves  and  rocks  ! 

Kings  !  your  Sovereign  serve  with  awe ; 
Judges  !  own  his  righteous  law  ; 
Princes  !  worship  Him  with  fear  ; 
Bow  the  knee,  all  people  here  ! 

Let  his  truth  by  babes  be  told, 
And  his  wonders  by  the  old ; 
Youths  and  maidens  !  in  your  prime, 
Learn  the  lays  of  heaven  betime. 

High  above  all  height  his  throne, 
Excellent  his  name  alone  ; 
Him  let  all  his  works  confess  ! 
Him  let  every  being  bless  ! 


NARRATIVES. 


FAREWELL  TO  WAR: 

BEING   A   TROLOGUE   TO 

"  lord  Falkland's  dream,"  and 
"arnold  de  winkelried,  or  the  patriot^  pass- 


Peace  to  the  trumpet ! — no  more  shall  my  breath 

Sound  an  alarm  in  the  dull  ear  of  death, 

Nor  startle  to  life  from  the  truce  of  the  tomb 

The  relics  of  heroes,  to  combat  till  doom. 

Lei  Marathon  sleep  to  the  sound  of  the  sea, 

Let  Hannibal's  spectre  haunt  ( 'anna?  for  me  ; 

Let  Cressy  mid  Agincourt  tremble  with  corn, 

And  Waterloo  blush  with  the  beauty  of  morn  ; 

I  turn  not  the  furrow  for  helmets  and  shields, 

Nor  sow  dragon's  teeth  in  their  old  fallow  fields ; 

I  will  not,  as  bards  have  been  wont,  since  the  flood, 

With  the  river  of  son?  swell  the  river  of  blood, 

— The  blood  of  the  valiant,  that  fell  in  all  climes, 

— The  song  of  the  gifted,  that  hallow'd  all  crimes, 

— All  crimes  in  the  war-fiend  incarnate  in  one  ; 

War,  withering  the  earth — war,  eclipsing  the  sun, 

Despoiling,  destroying,  since  discord  began, 

God's  works  and  God's  mercies, — man's  labours  and  man. 

Yet  war  have  I  loved,  and  of  war  have  I  sung, 
With  my  heart  in  my  hand  and  my  soul  on  my  tongue; 
With  all  the  affections  that  render  life  dear, 
With  the  throbbing  of  hope  and  the  flutterings  of  fear, 
— Of  hope,  that  the  sword  of  the  brave  might  prevail, 
— Of  fear,  lest  the  arm  of  the  righteous  should  fail. 

But  what  was  the  war  that  extorted  my  praise? 
What  battles  were  foughl  in  my  chivalrous  lays  ! 

iU*~  iT3~ 


114  NARRATIVES. 


— The  war  against  darkness  contending  with  light; 

The  war  against  violence  trampling  down  right ; 

— The  battles  of  patriots,  with  banner  unfurl'd, 

To  guard  a  child's  cradle  against  an  arm'd  world ; 

Of  peasants  that  peopled  their  ancestors'  graves, 

Lest  their  ancestors'  homes  should  be  peopled  by  slaves. 

I  served,  too,  in  wars  and  campaigns  of  the  mind  ; 

My  pen  was  the  sword,  which  I  drew  for  mankind  ; 

— In  war  against  tyranny  throned  in  the  West, 

— Campaigns  to  enfranchise  the  negro  oppress'd  ; 

In  war  against  war,  on  whatever  pretence, 

For  glory,  dominion,  revenge  or  defence, 

While  murder  and  perfidy,  rapine  and  lust, 

Laid  provinces  desolate,  cities  in  dust. 

Yes,  war  against  war  was  ever  my  pride  ; 
My  youth  and  my  manhood  in  Avaging  it  died, 
And  age,  with  its  weakness,  its  wounds,  and  its  scars, 
Still  finds  my  free  spirit  unquench'd  as  the  stars, 
And  he  who  would  bend  it  to  war  must  first  bind 
The  waves  of  the  ocean,  the  wings  of  the  wind ; 
For  I  call  it  not  war,  which  war's  counsels  o'erthrows, 
I  call  it  not  war  which  gives  nations  repose ; 
'Tis  judgment  brought  down  on  themselves  by  the  proud, 
Like  lightning,  by  fools,  from  an  innocent  cloud. 

I  war  against  all  war  ; — nor,  till  my  pulse  cease, 
Will  I  throw  down  my  weapons,  because  I  love  peace, 
Because  I  love  liberty,  execrate  strife, 
And  dread,  most  of  all  deaths,  that  slow  death  call'd  life, 
Dragg'd  on  by  a  vassal,  in  purple  or  chains, 
The  breath  of  whose  nostrils,  the  blood  in  whose  veins, 
He  calls  not  his  own,  nor  holds  from  his  God, 
While  it  hangs  on  a  king's  or  a  sycophant's  nod. 

Around  the  mute  trumpet, — no  longer  to  breathe 
War-clangours,  my  latest  war-chaplets  I  wreathe, 
Then  hang  them  aloof  on  the  time-stricken  oak, 
And  thus,  in  its  shadow,  heaven's  blessing  invoke :— 


LORD    FALKLAND  S    DREAM. 


"Lord  God !  since  the  African's  bondage  is  o'er, 
And  war  in  our  borders  is  heard  of  no  more, 
May  never,  while  Britain  adores  Thee,  again 
The  malice  of  fiends  or  the  madness  of  men, 
Break  the  peace  of  our  land,  and  by  villanous  wrong 
Find  a  field  for  a  hero,  a  hero  for  song." 


LORD  FALKLAND'S  DREAM. 

A.  D.  1643. 

"Io  vo  gridando,  Pace!  pace!  pace!" 

Fetrarca,  Canzone  Bffli  principi  d'  Italia, 

Esurtazione  alia  Pace,  A.  D.  1311.* 

"In  this  unhappy  battle  (ofNewbury)  was  Plain  the  Lord  Viscount  Falkland, 
a  person  of  such  prodigious  parts  of  learning  and  knowledge,  of  that  inimitable 
Bweetnesa  and  delight  of  conversation,  of  so  flowing  and  obliging  a  humanity 
and  goodness  to  mankind,  and  of  that  primitive  simplicity  and  integrity  of  life, 
that  if  there  were  no  other  brand  upon  this  odious  and  accursed  war,  than  that 
single  loss,  it  must  be  most  infamous  and  execrable  to  all  posterity. 
'  Turpe  mori,  post  te,  solo  non  posse  dolore.'  " 
***** 

"From  the  entrance  into  that  unnatural  war,  his  natural  cheerfulness  and 
vivacity  grew  clouded;  and  a  kind  of  sadness  and  dejection  stole  upon  him, 
which  he  had  never  been  used  to.        *  *  *        After  the  King's  return 

to  Oxford,  and  the  furious  resolution  of  the  two  Houses  not  to  admit  any  treaty 
for  peace,  those  indispositions  whi(  h  had  before  touched  him  grew  into  a  perfect 
habit  of  uncheerfulness  ;  and  he  who  had  been  so  exactly  easy  and  affable  to  all 
men,  that  his  face  and  countenance  was  always  present,  and  vacant  to  his  com- 
pany, and  held  any  cloudness  or  less  pleasantness  of  the  visage  a  kind  of  rude- 
incivility,  became  on  a  sudden  less  communicable,  and  thence  very  sad, 
pale,  and  exceedingly  affected  with  the  spleen.     In  his  clothes  and  habit,  which 
he  minded  before  with  more  neatness,  and  industry,  and  expense,  than  is  usual 
eat  a  soul,  he  was  not  only  incurious,  but  too  negligent ;  and  in  his  recep- 
tion of  suitors,  and  the  necessary  and  casual  addresses  to  his  place,  (beim:  then 
St  ite  to  Kim:  Charles.)  so  quick,  and  sharp,  and  severe,  that  there 
wanted  not  some  men   (strangers  to  his  nature  and  disposition)  who  believed 
him  proud  and  imperious,  from  which  no  mortal  man  was  ever  more  free." 
***** 
"  When  there  was  any  overture  or  hope  of  peace  he  would  be  more  erect  and 
vigorous,  and  exceedingly  solicitous  to  press  any  thing  which  he  thought  might 


*"I  go  exclaiming,  Peace!  peacp  !  peace!" — From  Petrarch's  Canzone  to 
tin  Princes  of  Italy,  entitled  uAn  J'.sltortntion  to  PeaceV 


116  &RATIYES. 


promote  it;  and,  sitting  among  liis  friends,  often,  after  a  deep  silence,  and  fre- 
quant  sighs,  would,  witb  a  abr ill  and  sad  accent,  ingeminate  the  word  'Peace! 
and  would  profi  m  tbat  tbe  very  agony  of  tbe  war,  and  the  vi.-w  of  the 
calamities  and  desolation  tbe  kingdom  did  and  must  endure,  took  his  sleep  from 
him,  and  would  shortly  break  his  heart.*' 

Claiu;M)cin's  History,  vol.  ii.  part  i. 

War,  civil  war,  was  raging  like  a  flood, 
England  lay  weltering  in  her  children's  blood; 
Brother  with  brother  waged  unnatural  strife, 
Sever'd  were  all  the  charities  of  life  : 
Two  passions — virtues  they  assumed  to  be, — 
Virtues  they  were, — romantic  loyalty, 
And  stern,  unyielding  patriotism,  possessed 
Divided  empire  in  the  nation's  breast; 
As  though  two  hearts  might  in  o\w  body  r« 
And  urge  conflicting  streams  from  vein  to  vein. 
On  either  side  the  ooblest  spirits  fought, 
And  highest  deeds  on  either  side  were  wrought : 
Hampden  in  battle  yesterday  hath  bled, 
Falkland  to-morrow  joins  the  immortal  dead  : 
The  one  for  freedom  perish'd — not  in  vain  ; 
The  other  fall — a  courtier  without  stain. 

'Twas  on  the  eve  of  Newbury's  doubtful  fight  : 
O'er  marshall'd  lees  came  down  the  peace  o(  night, 

— Peace  which,  to  eyes  in  living  slumber  seal'd, 

The  mysteries  of  the  nigh!  to  come  reveal'd, 

Wnen  that  throng'd  plain,  now  warm  with  heaving  breath, 

Should  lie  in  Cold,  fix'd  apathy  of  death, 
Falkland  from  COUrt  and  camp  had  glid  away. 

With  ( Ihaucer's  shade    through  Speenham's  woods  to  stray. 
And  pour  in  solitude,  w  ithout  control, 
Through  the  dun  gloom,  the  anguish  of  his  soul. 

—  Falkland,  the  plume  of  England's  chivalry. 
The  just,  the  brave,  the  generous,  and  the  free  ! 

—  Nay.  task  DOl   poetry  to  tell  his  praise. 
Twin.-  but  a  wreath  of  transitory  hay-. 


*  'I'll  •nhninhind,  m   ir  Nrw  Inn  liavo  bvon  the 

propertj  and  retldeni  e  <>( <  b 


117 


To  crown  him,  as  he  lives,  from  age  to  age, 

In  Clarendon's  imperishable  page  ; 

Look  there  upon  the  very  man,  and  see 

What  Falkland  was, — what  thou  thyself  shouldst  be  ; 

Patriot  and  loyalist,  who  veil'd  to  none, 

He  loved  his  country  and  his  king  in  one, 

And  could  no  more,  in  his  affections,  part 

That  wedded  pair,  than  pluck  out  half  his  heart : 

Hence  every  wound  that  each  the  other  gave, 

Brought  their  best  servant  nearer  to  the  grave. 

Thither  he  hasten'd,  withering  in  his  prime, 

The  worm  of  sorrow  wrought  the  work  of  time  ; 

And  England's  woes  had  sunk  him  with  their  weight, 

Had  not  the  swifter  sword  foreclosed  his  date. 

In  sighs  for  her  his  spirit  was  exhaled, 
He  wept  for  her  till  power  of  weeping  fail'd ; 
Pale,  wasted,  nerveless,  absent, — he  appear' d 
To  haunt  the  scenes  which  once  his  presence  cheer'd ; 
As  though  some  vampire  from  its  cerements  crept, 
And  drain'd  health's  fountain  nightly  while  he  slept ; 
But  he  slept  not ; — sleep  from  his  eyelids  fled, 
All  restless  as  the  ocean's  foam  his  bed : 
The  very  agony  of  war, — the  guilt 
Of  blood  by  kindred  blood  in  hatred  spilt, 
Crush'd  heart  and  hope  ;  till  foundering,  tempest-toss'd, 
From  gulfs  to  deeper  gulfs,  himself  he  lost. 
Yet  when  he  heard  the  drum  to  battle  beat, 
First  at  the  onset,  latest  in  retreat, 
Eager  to  brave  rebellion  to  the  face, 
Or  hunt  out  peril  in  its  hiding-place, 
Falkland  was  slow  to  harm  th'  ignoble  crowd, 
He  sought  to  raise  the  fall'n,  strike  down  the  proud, 
Nor  stood  there  one  for  parliament  or  throne 
More  choice  of  meaner  lives,  more  reckless  of  his  own. 

Oft  from  his  lips  a  shrill,  sad  moan  would  start, 
And  cold  misgivings  creep  around  his  heart, 
When  he  beheld  the  plague  of  war  increase, 
And  but  one  word  found  utterance — "Peace!  peace!  peace!' 


118  NARRATIVES. 


That  eve  he  wander'd  in  his  wayward  mood, 
Through  thoughts  more  wildering  than  the  maze  of  wood, 
Where,  when  the  moon-beam  flitted  o'er  his  face, 
He  seem'd  th'  unquiet  spectre  of  the  place  : 
Rank  thorns  and  briers,  the  rose  and  woodbine's  bloom 
Perplex' d  his  path  through  checker'd  light  and  gloom; 
Himself  insensible  of  gloom  or  light, 
Darkness  within  made  all  around  him  night ; 
Till  the  green  beauty  of  a  little  glade, 
That  open'd  up  to  heaven,  his  footsteps  stay'd : 
Eye,  breath,  and  pulse,  the  sweet  enchantment  felt, 
His  heart  with  tenderness  began  to  melt ; 
Trembling,  he  lean'd  against  a  Druid  oak, 
Whose  boughs  bare  token  of  the  thunder-stroke, 
With  root  unshaken,  and  with  bole  unbroke : 
Then  thus,  while  hope  almost  forgot  despair, 
Breathed  his  soul's  burden  on  the  tranquil  air : — 

"  O,  Britain  !  Britain  !  to  thyself  be  true  ; 
Land  which  the  Roman  never  could  subdue  : 
Oft  though  he  pass'd  thy  sons  beneath  the  yoke, 
As  oft  thy  sons  the  spears  they  bow'd  to  broke  ; 
Others  with  home-wrought  chains  he  proudly  bound, 
His  own  too  weak  to  fetter  thee  he  found : 
Though  garrison'd  by  legions,  legions  fail'd 
To  quell  thy  spirit, — thy  spirit  again  prevail'd. 
By  him  abandon'd,  island-martyr  !  doom'd 
To  prove  the  fires  of  ages  unconsumed, 
Though  Saxon,  Dane,  Norwegian,  Gallic  hordes, 
In  dire  succession,  gave  thee  laws  and  lords, 
Conquer'd  themselves  by  peace, — in  every  field, 
The  victor  to  the  vanquished  lost  his  shield. 
To  win  my  country,  to  usurp  her  throne, 
Canute  and  William  must  forsake  their  own ; 
Invading  rivers  thus  roll  back  the  sea, 
Then  lose  themselves  in  its  immensity. 

"  But  'twas  thine  own  distractions  lent  them  aid, 
Enslaved  by  strangers,  because  self-betray'd  ; 


Still  self-distracted; — yet  should  foreigD  foe 
Land  now,  another  spirit  thy  sons  would  show  ; 
King,  nobles,  parliament,  and  people, — all, 
Like  the  Red  Sea's  returning  naves,  would  fall, 
And  with  one  burst  o'erwhelm  the  mightiest  host. 
—  Would  such  a  foe  this  hour  were  on  thy  coast ! 

"  How  oft,  O  Albion!  since  those  twilight  times. 
Have  wars  intestine  laid  thee  waste  with  crimes! 
Tweed's  borderers  were  hereditary  foes, 
Nor  can  one  crown  even  now  their  feuds  compose; 
Thy  peasantry  were  serfs  to  vassal  lords, 
Yoked  with  their  oxen,  tether' d  to  their  swords : 
Round  their  cross-banners  kings  thy  bowmen  ranged, 
Till  York  and  Lancaster  their  roses  changed. 
Those  days,  thank  Heaven!  those  evil  days  are  past, 
Yet  wilt  thou  fall  by  suicide  at  last  I 
O  England  !  England  !   from  such  frenzy  cease, 
And  on  thyself  have  mercy. — Peace  '.  peace  !  peace  !" 

••  Who  talks  of"  Peace  .' — sweet  Peace  is  in  her  grave: 
a  lone  widow, — from  her  offspring  sav<   '*" 
Exclaim'd  a  voice,  scarce  earthly,  in  his  ear. 
Withering  his  nerves  with  unaccustom'd  fear; 
His  hand  was  on  his  sword,  but  ere  he  drew 
The  starting  blade,  a  suppliant  cross'd  his  view  ; 
Forth  from  the  forest  rush'd  a  female  form, 
Like  the  moon's  image  hurrying  through  the  storm ; 
Down  in  a  moment  at  his  feet,  aghast, 
Lock'd  to  his  smiting  knees,  herself  she  cast. 
Rent  were  her  garments,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
All  fleck'd  with  blood  from  many  an  unstaunch'd  wound, 
Inflicted  by  the  very  hands  that  press'd, 
In  rose-lipp'd  infancy,  her  yearning  breast; 
And  ever  and  anon  she  look'd  behind, 
As  though  pursuing  voices  swell'd  the  wind; 
Then  shriek'd  insanely, — "  Peace  is  in  her  grave  ! 
Save  a  lost  mother, — from  her  children  save  !" 
Wan  with  heart-sickness,  ready  to  expire, 
Her  cheeks  were  ashes,  but  her  eye  was  fire, 


120  NARRATIVES. 


— Fire  fix'd,  as  through  the  horror  of  the  mine, 
Sparks  from  the  diamond's  still  water  shine ; 
So  where  the  cloud  of  death  o'ershadowing  hung, 
Light  in  her  eye  from  depth  of  darkness  sprung, 
Dazzling  his  sight,  and  kindling  such  a  flame 
Within  his  breast  as  nature  could  not  name ; 
He  knew  her  not ; — that  face  he  never  saw ; 
He  loved  her  not, — yet  love,  chastised  by  awe 
And  reverence,  with  mysterious  terror  mix'd, 
His  looks  on  hers  in  fascination  fix'd.  [at  length : 

"Who  ? — whence  ? — what  wouldst  thou?"  Falkland  cried 
His  voice  inspired  her ;  up  she  rose  in  strength, 
Gather'd  her  robe  and  spread  her  locks,  to  hide 
The  unsightly  wounds  ;  then  fervently  replied  : — 
"  Behold  a  matron,  widow'd  and  forlorn, 
Yet  many  a  noble  son  to  me  was  born, 
Flowers  of  my  youth,  and  morning-stars  of  joy  ! 
— They  quarrell'd,  fought,  and  slew  my  youngest  boy  ; 
Youngest  and  best  beloved  ! — I  rush'd  between, 
My  darling  from  the  fratricides  to  screen  ; 
He  perish'd  ;  from  my  arms  he  dropp'd  in  death  ; 
I  felt  him  kiss  my  feet  with  his  last  breath ; 
The  swords  that  smote  him,  flashing  round  my  head, 
Pierced  me, — the  murderers  saw  my  blood,  and  fled, — 
Their  parent's  blood ;  and  she,  unconscious  why 
She  sought  thee  out,  came  here — came  here  to  die. 
'Tis  a  strange  tale  ; — 'tis  true, — and  yet  'tis  not ; 
Follow  me,  Falkland,  thou  shalt  see  the  spot, — 
See  my  slain  boy, — my  life's  own  life,  the  pride 
And  hope  of  his  poor  mother, — but  he  died  ; 
He  died, — and  she  did  not ; — how  can  it  be  ? 
But  I'm  immortal ! — Falkland,  come  and  see." 

She  spake  ;  while  Falkland,  more  and  more  amazed, 
On  her  ineffable  demeanour  gazed  ; 
So  vitally  her  form  and  features  changed, 
He  thought  his  own  clear  senses  were  deranged ; 
Outraged  and  desolate  she  seem'd  no  more ; 
He  follow'd  ;  stately,  she  advanced  before  ; 


LORD    FALKLAND'S    DK!  121 

The  thickets,  at  her  touch,  gave  way,  and  made 

A  wake  of  moonlight  through  their  deepest  shade. 

Anon  he  found  himself  on  Newbury's  plain, 

Walking  among  the  dying  and  the  slain ; 

At  every  step  in  blood  his  foot  was  dyed, 

He  heard  expiring  groans  on  every  side. 

The  battle-thunder  had  roll'd  by  ;  the  smoke 

Was  vanish'd ;  calm  and  bright  the  morning  broke, 

While  such  estrangement  o'er  his  mind  was  cast. 

As  though  another  day  and  night  had  past. 

There,  midst  the  nameless  crowd,  oft  met  his  view 

An  eye,  a  countenance,  which  Falkland  knew, 

But  knew  not  him  ; — that  eye  to  ice  congeal'd, 

That  countenance  by  death's  blank  signet  seal'd  : 

Rebel  and  royalist  alike  laid  low, 

Where  friend  embraced  not  friend,  but  foe  grasp'd  foe  ; 

Falkland  had  tears  for  each,  and  patriot  sighs, 

For  both  were  Britons  in  that  Briton's  eyes. 

Silent  before  him  trod  the  lofty  dame, 
Breathlessly  looking  round  her,  till  they  came 
Where  shatter" d  fences  mark'd  a  narrow  road : 
Tracing  that  line,  with  prostrate  corpses  strow'd. 
She  turn'd  their  faces  upward,  one  by  one, 
Till,  suddenly,  the  newly-risen  sun 
Shot  through  the  level  air  a  ruddy  glow, 
That  fell  upon  a  visage  white  as  snow  ; 
Then  with  a  groan  of  agony,  so  wild, 
As  if  the  soul  within  her  spake, — "  My  child  ! 
My  child  !"  she  said,  and  pointing,  shrinking  back. 
Made  way  for  Falkland. — Prone  along  the  track 
(A  sight  at  once  that  warm'd  and  thrill'd  with  awe) 
The  perfect  image  of  himself  he  saw, 
Shape,  feature,  limb,  the  arms,  the  dress  he  wore, 
And  one  wide,  honourable  wound  before. 
Then  flash'd  the  fire  of  pride  from  Falkland's  eye, 
"  'Tis  glorious  for  our  country  thus  to  die  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  leave  an  everlasting  name, 
A  heritage  of  clear  and  virtuous  fame." 


122  NARRATIVES. 


While  thoughts  like  these  his  maddening  brain  possess'd, 

And  lightning  pulses  thunder' d  through  his  breast ; 

While  Falkland  living  stood  o'er  Falkland  dead, 

Fresh  at  his  feet  the  corse's  death-wound  bled, 

The  eye  met  his  with  inexpressive  glance, 

Like  the  sleep-walker's  in  benumbing  trance, 

And  o'er  the  countenance  of  rigid  clay, 

The  flush  of  life  came  quick,  then  pass'd  away ; 

A  momentary  pang  convulsed  the  chest, 

As  though  the  heart,  awaking  from  unrest, 

Broke  with  the  effort ; — all  again  was  still ; 

Chill  through  his  tingling  veins  the  blood  ran,  chill. 

"Can  this,"  he  sigh'd,  "be  virtuous  fame  and  clear? 

Ah  !  what  a  field  of  fratricide  is  here  ! 

Perish  who  may, — 'tis  England,  England  falls  ; 

Triumph  who  will, — his  vanquish' d  country  calls, 

As  I  have  done, — as  I  will  never  cease, 

While  I  have  breath  and  being — Peace  !  peace  !  peace  !" 

Here  stoop'd  the  matron  o'er  the  dead  man's  face, 
Kiss'd  the  cold  lips,  then  caught  in  her  embrace 
The  living  Falkland ; — as  he  turn'd  to  speak, 
He  felt  his  mother's  tears  upon  his  cheek : 
He  knew  her,  own'd  her,  and  at  once  forgot 
All  but  her  earliest  love,  and  his  first  lot. 
Her  looks,  her  tones,  her  sweet  caresses,  then 
Brought  infancy  and  fairy  land  again, 
— Youth  in  the  morn  and  maidenhood  of  life, 
Ere  fortune  curst  his  father's  house  with  strife, 
And  in  an  age  when  nature's  laws  were  changed, 
Mother  and  son,  as  heaven  from  earth,  estranged.* 

"  Oh,   Falkland !    Falkland !"    when   her  voice   found 
speech, 
The  lady  cried ;  then  took  a  hand  of  each, 
And  joining  clasp'd  them  in  her  own, — "  My  son  ! 
Behold  thyself,  for  thou  and  he  are  one." 

*  There  had  been  unhappy  divisions  in  the  family,  both  with  respect  to  an 
inheritance  which  Falkland  held  from  his  grandfather,  and  the  religion  of  his 
mother,  who  was  a  Roman  Catholic. 


123 


The  dead  man's  hand  grasp'd  Falkland's  with  such  force, 
He  fell  transform'd  into  that  7ery  corse, 
As  though  the  wound  which  slew  his  counterpart 
That  moment  sent  the  death-shot  through  his  heart. 

When  from  that  ecstasy  he  oped  his  eyes, 
He  thought  his  soul  translated  to  the  skies ; 
The  battle-field  had  disappear'd  ;  the  scene 
Had  changed  to  beauty,  silent  and  serene ; 
City  nor  country  look'd  as  heretofore ; 
A  hundred  years  and  half  a  hundred  more 
Had  travell'd  o'er  him  while  entranced  he  lay ; 
England  appear'd  as  England  at  this  day, 
In  arts,  arms,  commerce,  enterprise,  and  power, 
Beyond  the  dreams  of  his  devoutest  hour, 
When,  with  prophetic  call,  the  patriot  brought 
Ages  to  come  before  creative  thought. 

With  doubt,  fear,  joy,  he  look'd  above,  beneath, 
Felt  his  own  pulse,  inhaled,  and  tried  to  breathe  : 
Next  raised  an  arm,  advanced  a  foot,  then  broke 
Silence,  yet  only  in  a  whisper  spoke  : — 
"  My  mother  !  are  we  risen  from  the  tomb  ? 
Is  this  the  morning  of  the  day  of  doom  ?" 
No  answer  came  ;  his  mother  was  not  there, 
But,  tall  and  beautiful  beyond  compare, 
One,  who  might  well  have  been  an  angel's  bride, 
Were  angels  mortal,  glitter' d  at  his  side. 
It  seem'd  some  mighty  wizard  had  unseal'd 
The  book  of  fate,  and  in  that  hour  reveal'd 
The  object  of  a  passion  all  his  own, 
— A  lady  unexistent,  or  unknown, 
Whose  saintly  image,  in  his  heart  enshrined, 
Was  but  an  emanation  of  his  mind, 
The  ideal  form  of  glory,  goodness,  truth, 
Imbodied  now  in  all  the  flush  of  youth, 
Yet  not  too  exquisite  to  look  upon : 
He  kneel'd  to  kiss  her  hand, — the  spell  was  gone. 
Even  while  his  brain  the  dear  illusion  cross'd, 
Her  form  of  soft  humanity  was  lost. 


124  NARRATIVES. 


— Then,  nymph  nor  goddess,  of  poetic  birth, 

E'er  graced  Jove's  heaven,  or  stept  on  classic  earth, 

Like  her  in  majesty  ; — the  stars  came  down 

To  wreathe  her  forehead  with  a  fadeless  crown ; 

The  sky  enrobed  her  with  ethereal  blue, 

And  girt  with  orient  clouds  of  many  a  hue ; 

The  sun,  enamour'd  of  that  loveliest  sight, 

So  veil'd  his  face  with  her  benigner  light, 

That  woods  and  mountains,  valleys,  rocks,  and  streams, 

Were  only  visible  in  her  pure  beams. 

While  Falkland,  pale  and  trembling  with  surprise, 
Admired  the  change,  her  stature  seem'd  to  rise, 
Till  from  the  ground,  on  which  no  shadow  spread, 
To  the  arch'd  firmament  she  rear'd  her  head  ; 
And  in  th'  horizon's  infinite  expanse, 
He  saw  the  British  islands  at  a  glance, 
With  intervening  and  encircling  seas, 
O'er  which,  from  every  port,  with  every  breeze, 
Exulting  ships  were  sailing  to  all  realms, 
Whence  vessels  came,  with  strangers  at  their  helms, 
On  Albion's  shores  all  climes  rejoiced  to  meet, 
And  pour  their  native  treasures  at  her  feet. 

Then  Falkland,  in  that  glorious  dame,  descried 
Not  a  dead  parent,  nor  a  phantom  bride, 
But  her  who  ruled  his  soul,  in  either  part, 
At  once  the  spouse  and  mother  of  his  heart, 
— His  country,  thus  personified,  in  grace 
And  grandeur  unconceived,  before  his  face. 
Then  spake  a  voice,  as  from  the  primal  sphere, 
Heard  by  his  spirit  rather  than  his  ear : — 

"  Henceforth  let  civil  war  for  ever  cease  ; 
Henceforth,  my  sons  and  daughters,  dwell  in  peace ; 
Amidst  the  ocean-waves  that  never  rest, 
My  lovely  Isle,  be  thou  the  halcyon's  nest ; 
Amidst  the  nations,  evermore  in  arms, 
Be  thou  a  haven,  safe  from  all  alarms  ; 
Alone  immovable  'midst  ruins  stand, 
Th'  unfailing  hope  of  every  failing  land : 


PASS-WORD.  125 


To  thee  for  refuge  kings  enthroned  repair ; 
Slaves  flock  to  breathe  the  freedom  of  thine  air. 
Hither,  from  chains  and  yokes,  let  exiles  bend 
Their  footsteps  ;  here  the  friendless  find  a  friend  ; 
The  country  of  mankind  shall  Britain  be, 
The  home  of  peace,  the  whole  world's  sanctuary." 

The  pageant  fled  ;  'twas  but  a  dream  :  he  woke, 
And  found  himself  beneath  the  Druid-oak, 
Where  first  the  phantom  on  his  vigil  broke. 

Around  him  gleam' d  the  morn's  reviving  light ; 
But  distant  trumpets  summon'd  to  the  fight, 
And  Falkland  slept  among  the  slain  at  night. 

1831. 


THE  PATRIOT'S  PASS-WORD. 

On  the  achievement  of  Arnold  de  Winkelried,  at  the  battle  of  Sempach,  in  which 
the  Swiss  insurgent!  secured  the  freedom  of  their  country,  against  the  power 
of  Austria,  in  the  fourteenth  century. 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  !"  he  cried, 
Made  way  for  liberty,  and  died. 

In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood ; 
A  wall, — where  every  conscious  stone 
Seem'd  to  its  kindred  thousands  grown, 
A  rampart  all  assaults  to  bear, 
Till  time  to  dust  their  frames  should  wear : 
A  wood, — like  that  enchanted  grove* 
In  which  with  fiends  Rinaldo  strove, 
Where  every  silent  tree  possess'd 
A  spirit  imprison'd  in  its  breast, 
Which  the  first  stroke  of  coming  strife 
Might  startle  into  hideous  life  : 
So  still,  so  dense,  the  Austrians  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood. 

*  Oeruaalemme  Liberata,  eanto  ivitt. 

= —  u* 


NARRATIVES. 


Impregnable  their  front  appears, 
All-horrent  with  projected  spears, 
Whose  polish'd  points  before  them  shine, 
From  flank  to  flank,  one  brilliant  line, 
Bright  as  the  breakers'  splendours  run 
Along  the  billows  to  the  sun. 

Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 
Contended  for  their  father-land  ; 
Peasants,  whose  new-found  strength  had  broke 
From  manly  necks  th'  ignoble  yoke, 
And  beat  their  fetters  into  swords, 
On  equal  terms  to  fight  their  lords, 
And  what  insurgent  rage  had  gain'd, 
In  many  a  mortal  fray  maintain' d. 
Marsha] I'd  once  more,  at  freedom's  call 
They  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall, 
Where  he  who  conquer'd,  he  who  fell, 
Was  deenV d  a  dead  or  living  Tell ; 
Such  virtue  had  that  patriot  breathed, 
So  to  the  soil  his  soul  bequeathed, 
That  wheresoe'er  his  arrows  flew, 
Heroes  in  his  own  likeness  grew, 
And  warriors  sprang  from  every  sod 
Which  his  awakening  footstep  trod. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 
Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath  ; 
The  fire  of  conflict  burn'd  within, 
The  battle  trembled  to  begin  ; 
Yet  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground, 
Point  for  assault  was  nowhere  found  ; 
Where'er  th'  impatient  Switzers  gazed, 
Th'  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed ; 
That  line  'twere  suicide  to  meet, 
And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet : 
How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves, 
To  leave  their  homes  the  haunts  of  slaves  ? 
Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread, 
With  clanking  chains,  above  their  head  ? 


THE    PATRIOT'S    PASS-WORD.  127 

It  must  not  be  ;  this  day,  this  hour 
Annihilates  th'  invader's  power ; 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field, 
She  will  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield, 
She  must  not  fall ;  her  better  fate 
Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 
Few  were  the  numbers  she  could  boast. 
Yet  every  freeman  was  a  host, 
And  felt  as  'twere  a  secret  known, 
That  one  should  turn  the  scale  alone, 
While  each  unto  himself  was  he, 
I  >n  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  did  depend  on  one  indeed  ; 
Behold  him, — Arnold  Winkelried  ; 
There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 
The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 
Unmark'd  he  stood  amidst  the  throng, 
In  rumination  deep  and  long, 
Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace, 
The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face, 
And  by  the  motion  of  his  form 
Anticipate  the  bursting  storm, 
And  by  th'  uplifting  of  his  brow 
Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 

But  'twas  no  sooner  thought  than  done, 
The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  ; 
"Make  way  for  liberty  !"  he  cried. 
Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide, 
As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp  ; 
Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp  ; 
"  .A lake  way  for  liberty  !"  he  cried, 
Their  keen  points  cross'd  from  side  to  side  ; 

iw'd  amidst  them,  like  a  tree, 
And  thus  made  way  for  liberty. 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly, 
"Make  way  for  liberty  !"  they  cry, 
And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart, 
As  rush'd  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart, 


While,  instantaneous  as  his  fall, 
Rout,  ruin,  panic  seized  them  all ; 
An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 
A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free  ; 
Thus  death  made  way  for  liberty. 

Redcar,  1827. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  BLIND. 


"  It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 
Built,  in  th'  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark." 

Milton's  Lycidas. 

The  subject  of  the  following  poem  was  suggested  by  certain  well-authenticated 
facts,  published  at  Paris,  in  a  medical  journal,  some  years  ago ;  of  which  a  few 
particulars  may  be  given  here. 

"  The  ship  Le  Rodeur,  Captain  B.,  of  two  hundred  tons  burden,  left  Havre  on 
the  24th  of  January,  1819,  for  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  reached  her  destination 
on  the  14th  of  March  following,  anchoring  at  Bonny,  on  the  river  Calabar.  The 
crew,  consisting  of  twenty-two  men,  enjoyed  good  health  during  the  outward 
voyage,  and  during  their  stay  at  Bonny,  where  they  continued  till  the  6th  of 
April.  They  had  observed  no  trace  of  ophthalmia  among  the  natives  ;  arid  it  was 
not  until  fifteen  days  after  they  had  set  sail  on  the  return  voyage,  and  the  vessel 
was  near  the  equator,  that  they  perceived  the  first  symptoms  of  this  frightful 
malady.  It  was  then  remarked,  that  the  negroes,  who,  to  the  number  of  one 
hundred  and  sixty,  were  crowded  together  in  the  hold,  and  between  the  decks, 
had  contracted  a  considerable  redness  of  the  eyes,  which  spread  with  singular 
rapidity.  No  great  attention  was  at  first  paid  to  these  symptoms,  which  were 
thought  to  be  caused  only  by  the  want  of  air  in  the  hold,  and  by  the  scarcity  of 
water,  which  had  already  begun  to  be  felt.  At  this  time  they  were  limited  to 
eight  ounces  of  water  a  day  for  each  person,  which  quantity  was  afterwards 
reduced  to  the  half  of  a  wine-glass.  By  the  advice  of  M.  Maugnan,  the  surgeon 
of  the  ship,  the  negroes,  who  had  hitherto  remained  shut  up  in  the  hold,  were 
brought  upon  deck  in  succession,  in  order  that  they  might  breathe  a  purer  air. 
But  it  became  necessary  to  abandon  this  expedient,  salutary  as  it  was,  because 
many  of  the  negroes,  affected  with  nostalgia,  (a  passionate  longing  to  return  to 
their  native  land,)  threw  themselves  into  the  sea,  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

"The  disease  which  had  spread  itself  so  rapidly  and  frightfully  among  the 
Africans,  soon  began  to  infect  all  on  board.  The  danger  also  was  greatly 
increased  by  a  malignant  dysentery  which  prevailed  at  the  time.  The  first  of 
the  crew  who  caught  it  was  a  sailor  who  slept  under  the  deck  near  the  grated 
hatch  which  communicated  with  the  hold.  The  next  day  a  landsman  was 
seized  with  ophthalmia ;  and  in  three  days  more,  the  captain  and  the  whole 
ship's  company,  except  one  sailor,  who  remained  at  the  helm,  were  blinded  by 
the  disorder. 

"All  means  of  cure  which  the  surgeon  employed,  while  he  was  able  to  act, 
proved  ineffectual.    The  sufferings  of  the  crew,  which  were  otherwise  intense, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    BLIM).  129 


were  aggravated  by  apprehension  of  revolt  among  the  negroes,  and  the  dread 
of  not  being  able  to  reach  the  West  Indies,  if  the  only  Bailor  who  had  hitherto 

escaped  the  contagion,  and  on  whom  their  whole  hope  rested,  should  lose 
his  Bighl  like  the  rest.  This  calamity  had  actually  befallen  the  Leon,  a  Spanish 
vessel  which  the  Rodeur  met  on  her  passage,  and  the  whole  of  whose  crew, 
having  become  blind,  were  under  the  necessity  of  altogether  abandoning  the 
direction  of  their  ship.  These  unhappy  creatures,  as  they  passed,  earnestly 
entreated  the  charitable  interference  of  the  Beamen  of  the  Rodeur;  but  these, 
under  their  own  affliction,  could  neither  quit  their  vessel  to  l'o  on  board  the 
Leon,  nor  receive  the  crew  of  the  latter  into  the  Rodeur,  where,  on  account  of 
the  cargo  of  negroeB,  there  was  scarcely  room  for  themselves.  The  vessels, 
therefore,  soon  parted  company,  and  the  I. eon  was  never  seen  or  heard  of  again, 
so  far  as  could  be  traced  at  the  publication  of  this  narrative.  In  all  probability, 
then,  it  was  lost.     On  the  fate  of  this  vessel  the  poem  is  founded. 

"The  Rodeur  reached  Guadaloupe  on  the  -2l>\  of  June,  1819 ;  her  crew  being 
in  a  most  deplorable  condition.  Of  the  negroes,  thirty-seven  had  Become  per- 
fectly blind,  twelve  had  losl  each  an  eye,  and  fourteen  remained  otherwise 
blemished  by  the  disease.  Of  the  crew,  twelve,  including  the  surgeon,  had 
entirely  lost  their  sight;  live  escaped  \\  it li  an  eye  each,  and  four  were  partially 
injured." 


PART    I. 

O'er  Africa  the  morning  broke, 

And  many  a  negro-land  reveal'd, 
From  Europe's  eye  and  Europe's  yoke, 

In  nature's  inmost  heart  conceal'd : 
Here  roll'd  the  Nile  his  glittering  train, 
From  Ethiopia  to  the  main  ; 
And  Niger  there  uncoil'd  his  length, 
That  hides  his  fountain  and  his  strength, 

Among  the  realms  of  noon  ; 
Casting  away  their  robes  of  night, 
Forth  stood  in  nakedness  of  light, 

The  mountains  of  the  moon. 

Hush'd  were  the  howlings  of  the  wild, 

The  leopard  in  his  dvn  lay  prone  ; 
Man,  while  creation  round  him  smiled, 

Was  sad  or  savage,  man  alone ; 
— Down  in  the  dungeons  of  Algiers, 
The  Christian  captive  woke  in  tears ; 
CaiTraria's  lean,  marauding  race 
Prowl'd  forth  on  pillage  or  the  chase  ; 


130  NARRATIVES. 


— In  Libyan  solitude, 
Th'  Arabian  horseman  scour' d  along ; 
— The  caravan's  obstreperous  throng, 

Their  dusty  march  pursued. 

But  wo  grew  frantic  in  the  west ; 

A  wily  rover  of  the  tide 
Had  mark'd  the  hour  of  Afric's  rest, 

To  snatch  her  children  from  her  side : 
At  early  dawn,  to  prospering  gales, 
The  eager  seamen  stretch  their  sails ; 
The  anchor  rises  from  its  sleep 
Beneath  the  rocking  of  the  deep ; 

Impatient  from  the  shore, 
A  vessel  steals  ; — she  steals  away, 
Mute  as  the  lion  with  his  prejr, 

— A  human  prey  she  bore. 

Curst  was  her  trade  and  contraband, 

Therefore  that  keel,  by  guilty  stealth, 
Fled  with  the  darkness  from  the  strand, 

Laden  with  living  bales  of  wealth  : 
Fair  to  the  eye  her  streamers  play'd 
With  undulating  light  and  shade  ; 
White  from  her  prow  the  gurgling  foam 
Flew  backward  tow'rds  the  negro's  home, 

Like  his  unheeded  sighs  ; 
Sooner  that  melting  foam  shall  reach 
His  inland  home,  than  yonder  beach 

Again  salute  his  eyes. 

Tongue  hath  not  language  to  unfold 
The  secrets  of  the  space  between 
That  vessel's  flanks, — whose  dungeon-hold 

Hides  what  the  sun  hath  never  seen ; 
Three  hundred  writhing  prisoners  there 
Breathe  one  mephitic  blast  of  air 
From  lip  to  lip ; — like  flame  supprest, 
It  bursts  from  every  tortured  breast, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    BLIND.  131    ' 


With  dreary  groans  and  strong ; 
Lock'd  side  to  side,  they  feel,  by  starts, 
The  beating  of  each  other's  hearts, 

— Their  breaking  too,  ere  long. 

Light  o'er  the  blue  untroubled  sea, 

Fancy  might  deem  that  vessel  held 
Her  voyage  to  eternity, 

By  one  unchanging  breeze  impell'd ; 
— Eternity  is  in  the  sky, 
Whose  span  of  distance  mocks  the  eye ; 
Eternity  upon  the  main, 
The  horizon  there  is  sought  in  vain ; 

Eternity  below 
Appears  in  heaven's  inverted  face  ; 
And  on,  through  everlasting  space, 

Th'  unbounded  billows  fiW. 

Yet,  while  his  wandering  bark  career'd, 

The  master  knew,  with  stern  delight, 
That  full  for  port  her  helm  was  steer'd, 

With  aim  unerring,  day  and  night. 
— Pirate  !  that  port  thou  ne'er  shalt  hail ; 
Thine  eye  in  search  of  it  shall  fail : 
But,  lo  !  thy  slaves  expire  beneath  ; 
Haste,  bring  the  wretches  forth  to  breathe 

Brought  forth, — away  they  spring, 
And  headlong  in  the  whelming  tide, 
Rescued  from  thee,  their  sorrows  hide 

Beneath  the  halcyon's  wing. 

PART    II. 

There  came  an  angel  of  eclipse, 

Who  haunts  at  times  th'  Atlantic  flood, 

And  smites  with  blindness,  on  their  ships, 
The  captives  and  the  men  of  blood. 

— Here,  in  the  hold  the  blight  began, 

From  eye  to  eye  contagion  ran  ; 


132  NARRATIVES. 


Sight,  as  with  burning  brands,  was  quench'd ; 
None  from  the  fiery  trial  blench'd, 

But,  panting  for  release, 
They  call'd  on  death,  who,  close  behind, 
Brought  pestilence  to  lead  the  blind, 

From  agony  to  peace. 

The  two-fold  plague  no  power  could  check ; 

Unseen  its  withering  arrows  flew  ; 
It  walk'd  in  silence  on  the  deck, 

And  smote  from  stem  to  stern  the  crew : 
— As  glow-worms  dwindle  in  the  shade, 
As  lamps  in  charnel-houses  fade, 
From  every  orb,  with  vision  fired, 
In  flitting  sparks  the  light  retired  ; 

The  sufferers  saw  it  go, 
And  o'er  the  ship,  the  sea,  the  skies, 
Pursued  it  with  their  failing  eyes, 

Till  all  was  black  below. 

A  murmur  swell' d  along  the  gale, 

All  rose,  and  held  their  breath  to  hear ; 
All  look'd,  but  none  could  spy  a  sail, 

Although  a  sail  was  near ; 
— "  Help  !  help  !"  our  beckoning  sailors  cried  ; 
"  Help  !  help  !"  a  hundred  tongues  replied  : 
Then  hideous  clamour  rent  the  air, 
Questions  and  answers  of  despair  : 

Few  words  the  mystery  clear'd  ; 
The  pest  had  found  that  second  bark, 
Where  every  eye  but  his  was  dark, 

Whose  hand  the  vessel  steer'd. 

He,  wild  with  panic,  turn'd  away, 

And  thence  his  shrieking  comrades  bore ; 

From  either  ship  the  winds  convey 

Farewells,  that  soon  are  heard  no  more : 

— A  calm  of  horror  hush'd  the  waves  ; 

Behold  them  ! — merchant,  seamen,  slaves, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    BLIND.  133 

The  blind,  the  dying,  and  the  dead ; 
All  help,  all  hope,  for  ever  fled ; 

Unseen,  yet  face  to  face  ! 
Wo  past,  wo  present,  wo  to  come, 
Held  for  a  while  each  victim  dumb, 

— Impaled  upon  his  place. 

It  is  not  in  the  blood  of  man 

To  crouch  ingloriously  to  fate  ; 
Nature  will  struggle  while  she  can ; 

Misfortune  makes  her  children  great ; 
The  head  which  lightning  hath  laid  low, 
Is  hallow'd  by  the  noble  blow : 
The  wretch  who  yields  a  felon's  breath, 
Emerges  from  the  cloud  of  death, 

A  spirit  on  the  storm  : 
But  virtue  perishing  unknown, 
Watch'd  by  the  eye  of  Heaven  alone, 

Is  earth's  least  earthly  form. 

What  were  the  scenes  on  board  that  bark  ? 

The  tragedy  which  none  beheld, 
When  (as  the  deluge  bore  the  ark), 

By  power  invisible  impell'd, 
The  keel  went  blindfold  through  the  surge, 
Where  stream  might  drift,  or  tempest  urge  ; 
— Plague,  famine,  thirst,  their  numbers  slew, 
And  frenzy  seized  the  hardier  few 

Who  yet  were  spared  to  try 
How  everlasting  are  the  pangs, 
When  life  upon  a  moment  hangs, 

And  death  stands  mocking  by.  . 

Imagination's  daring  glance 

May  pierce  that  vale  of  mystery, 
As  in  the  rapture  of  a  trance, 

Things  which  no  eye  hath  seen  to  see ; 
And  hear  by  fits  along  the  gales, 
Screams,  maniac-laughter,  hollow  wails  : 

.  12 


NARRATIVES. 


— They  stand,  they  lie,  above,  beneath, 
Groans  of  unpitied  anguish  breathe, 

Tears  unavailing  shed ; 
Each,  in  abstraction  of  despair, 
Seems  to  himself  a  hermit  there, 

Alive  among  the  dead. 

Yet  respite, — respite  from  his  woes, 

Even  here,  the  conscious  sufferer  feels ; 
Worn  down  by  torture  to  repose, 

Slumber  the  vanish' d  world  reveals  : 
—Ah  !  then  the  eyes,  extinct  in  night, 
Again  behold  the  blessed  light ; 
Ah !  then  the  frame  of  rack'd  disease 
Lays  its  delighted  limbs  at  ease  ; 

Swift  to  his  own  dear  land, 
The  unfetter'd  slave  with  shouts  returns, 
Hard  by  his  dreaming  tyrant  burns 

At  sight  of  Cuba's  strand. 

To  blank  reality  they  wake, 

In  darkness  opens  every  eye : 
Peace  comes  ; — the  negro's  heart-strings  break, 

To  him  'tis  more  than  life  to  die : 
— How  feels,  how  fares  the  man  of  blood  ? 
In  endless  exile  on  the  flood, 
Rapt,  as  though  fiends  his  vessel  steer'd, 
Things  which  he  once  believed  and  fear'd, 

— Then  scorn'd  as  idle  names, — 
Death,  judgment,  conscience,  hell  conspire, 
With  thronging  images  of  fire, 
•  To  light  up  guilt  in  flames. 

Who  cried  for  mercy  in  that  hour, 

And  found  it  on  the  desert  sea  ? 
Who  to  the  utmost  grasp  of  power 

Wrestled  with  life's  last  enemy  ? 
Who,  Mari us-like,  defying  fate, 
(Marius  on  fallen  Carthage)  sate  ? 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    BLIND.  135 

Who,  through  a  hurricane  of  fears, 
Clung  to  the  hopes  of  future  years  ?    , 

And  who,  with  heart  unquail'd, 
Look'd  from  time's  trembling  precipice 
Down  on  eternity's  abyss, 

Till  breath  and  footing  fail'd  ? 

Is  there  among  this  crew  not  one, 

One  whom  a  widow 'd  mother  bare, — 
Who  mourns  far  off  her  only  son, 

And  pours  for  him  her  soul  in  prayer  ? 
Even  now,  when  o'er  his  soften'd  thought, 
Remembrance  of  her  love  is  brought, 
To  soothe  death's  agony,  and  dart 
A  throb  of  comfort  through  his  heart, — 

Even  now  a  mystic  knell 
Sounds  through  her  pulse  ; — she  lifts  her  eye, 
Sees  a  pale  spirit  passing  by, 

And  hears  his  voice,  "  farewell !" 

Mother  and  son  shall  meet  no  more  : 

— The  floating  tomb  of  its  own  dead, 
That  ship  shall  never  reach  a  shore  ; 

But,  far  from  track  of  seamen  led, 
The  sun  shall  watch  it,  day  by  day, 
Careering  on  its  lonely  way  ; 
Month  after  month,  the  moon  shine  pale 
On  falling  mast  and  riven  sail ; 

The  stars,  from  year  to  year, 
Mark  the  bulged  flanks,  and  sunken  deck, 
Till  not  a  ruin  of  the  wreck 

On  ocean's  face  appear. 


136  NARRATIVES. 


AN  EVERY-DAY  TALE. 

Written  for  a  benevolent  Society  in  the  metropolis,  the  object  of  which  is  to 
relieve  poor  women  during  the  first  month  of  their  widoichood,  to  preserve  what 
little  property  they  may  have  from  wreck  and  ruin,  in  a  season  of  embarrass- 
ment, when  kindness  and  good  counsel  are  especially  needed ;  and,  so  far  as 
may  be  practicable,  to  assist  the  destitute  with  future  means  of  maintaining 
themselves  and  their  fatherless  children. 

"  The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor."— Gray. 

Mine  is  a  tale  of  every  day, 
Yet  turn  not  thou  thine  ear  away ; 
For  'tis  the  bitterest  thought  of  all, 
The  worm-wood  added  to  the  gall, 
That  such  a  wreck  of  mortal  bliss, 
That  such  a  weight  of  wo  as  this, 
Is  no  strange  thing, — but,  strange  to  say  ! 
The  tale,  the  truth  of  every  day. 

At  Mary's  birth,  her  mother  smiled 
Upon  her  first,  last,  only  child, 
And,  at  the  sight  of  that  young  flower, 
Forgot  the  anguish  of  her  hour ; 
Her  pains  return' d ; — she  soon  forgot 
Love,  joy,  hope,  sorrow, — she  was  not. 

Her  partner  stood,  like  one  bereft 
Of  all, — not  all,  their  babe  was  left ; 
By  the  dead  mother's  side  it  slept, 
Slept  sweetly ; — when  it  woke,  it  wept. 
"  Live,  Mary,  live,  and  I  will  be 
Father  and  mother  both  to  thee  !" 
The  mourner  cried,  and  while  he  spake, 
His  breaking  heart  forebore  to  break  ; 
Faith,  courage,  patience,  from  above, 
Flew  to  the  help  of  fainting  love. 
While  o'er  his  charge  that  parent  yearn'd, 
All  woman's  tenderness  he  learn'd, 
All  woman's  waking,  sleeping  care, 
— That  sleeps  not  to  her  babe, — her  prayer, 


AN    EVERY-DAY    TALE.  137 

Of  power  to  bring-  upon  its  head, 

The  richest  blessing's  heaven  can  shed  ; 

All  these  he  learn'd,  and  lived  to  say, 

"  My  strength  was  given  me  as  my  day." 

So  the  Red  Indian  of  those  woods, 
That  echo  to  Lake  Erie's  floods, 
Reft  of  his  consort  in  the  wild, 
Became  the  mother  of  his  child  ! 
Nature  (herself  a  mother)  saw 
His  grief,  and  loosed  her  kindliest  law : 
Warm  from  its  fount  life's  stream,  propell'd, 
His  breasts  with  sweet  nutrition  swell'd, 
At.  whose  strange  springs,  his  infant  drew 
Milk,  as  the  rose-bud  drinks  the  dew. 

Mary  from  childhood  rose  to  youth, 
In  paths  of  innocence  and  truth ; 
— Train'd  by  her  parent,  from  her  birth, 
To  go  to  heaven  by  way  of  earth, 
She  was  to  him,  in  after-life, 
Both  as  a  daughter  and  a  wife. 

Meekness,  simplicity,  and  grace, 
Adorn'd  her  speech,  her  air,  her  face ; 
The  spirit,  through  its  earthly  mould, 
Broke,  as  the  lily's  leaves  unfold ; 
Her  beauty  open'd  on  the  sight, 
As  a  star  trembles  into  light. 

Love  found  that  maiden  ;  love  will  find 
Way  to  the  coyest  maiden's  mind  ; 
Love  found  and  tried  her  many  a  year, 
With  hope  deferr'd,  and  boding  fear ; 
To  the  world's  end  her  hero  stray'd ; 
Tempests  and  calms  his  bark  delay'd  ; 
What  then  could  her  heart-sickness  soothe  ? 
"The  course  of  true  love  ne'er  ran  smooth!" 
Her  bosom  ached  with  drear  suspense, 
Till  sharper  trouble  drove  it  thence: 
Affliction  smote  her  father's  brain, 
And  he  became  a  child  again. 

T2* 


NARRATIVES. 


Ah !  then,  the  prayers,  the  pangs,  the  tears, 
He  breathed,  felt,  shed  on  her  young  years, 
That  duteous  daughter  well  repaid, 
Till  in  the  grave  she  saw  him  laid, 
Beneath  her  mother's  church-yard  stone  : 
— There  first  she  felt  herself  alone  ; 
But  while  she  gazed  on  that  cold  heap, 
Her  parents'  bed,  and  could  not  weep, 
A  still  small  whisper  seem'd  to  say, 
"  Strength  shall  be  given  thee  as  thy  day  :" 
Then  rush'd  the  tears  to  her  relief; 
A  bow  was  in  the  cloud  of  grief. 

Her  wanderer  now,  from  clime  to  clime, 
Return' d,  unchanged  by  tide  or  time, 
True  as  the  morning  to  the  sun ; 
— Mary  and  William  soon  were  one  ; 
And  never  rang  the  village  bells 
With  sweeter  falls  or  merrier  swells, 
Than  while  the  neighbours,  young  and  old, 
Stood  at  their  thresholds,  to  behold, 
And  bless  them,  till  they  reach'd  the  spot, 
Where  woodbines  girdled  Mary's  cot, 
Where  throstles,  perch'd  on  orchard  trees, 
Sang  to  the  hum  of  garden  bees : 
And  there — no  longer  forced  to  roam — 
William  found  all  the  world  at  home ; 
Yea,  more  than  all  the  world  beside, 
— A  warm,  kind  heart  to  his  allied. 

Twelve  years  of  humble  life  they  spent, 
With  food  and  raiment  well  content ; 
In  flower  of  youth  and  flush  of  health, 
They  envied  not  voluptuous  wealth ; 
The  wealth  of  poverty  was  theirs, 
— Those  riches  without  wings  or  snares, 
Which  honest  hands,  by  daily  toil, 
May  dig  from  every  generous  soil. 
A  little  farm,  while  William  till'd, 
Mary  her  household  cares  fulfill'd  ; 


AN    EVERY-DAY    TALE.  139 

And  love,  joy,  peace,  with  guileless  mirth, 
Sate  round  the  table,  waim'd  their  hearth ; 
Whence  rose,  like  incense,  to  the  skies, 
Morning-  and  evening  sacrifice, 
And  contrite  spirits  found,  in  prayer, 
That  home  was  heaven,  for  God  was  there. 

Meanwhile  the  May-flowers  on  their  lands 
Were  yearly  pluck' d  by  younger  hands; 
New  comers  watch'd  the  swallows  float, 
And  mock'd  the  cuckoo's  double  note ; 
Till,  head  o'er  head,  in  slanting  line, 
They  stood, — a  progeny  of  nine, 
That  might  be  ten  ; — but  ere  that  day, 
The  father's  life  was  snatch'd  away ; 
Faint  from  the  field  one  night  he  came  ; 
Fever  had  seized  his  sinewy  frame, 
And  left  the  strong  man,  when  it  pass'd, 
Frail  as  the  sere  leaf  in  the  blast ; 
A  long,  long  winter's  illness,  bow'd 
His  head  ; — spring-daisies  deck'd  his  shroud. 
Oh  !  'twas  a  bitter  day  for  all, 
The  husband's,  father's  funeral ; 
The  dead,  the  living,  and  the  unborn 
Met  there, — were  there  asunder  torn. 

Scarce  was  he  buried  out  of  sight, 
Ere  his  tenth  infant  sprang  to  light, 
And  Mary,  from  her  child-bed  throes, 
To  instant,  utter  ruin  rose  ; 
Harvests  had  fail'd,  and  sickness  drain'd 
Her  frugal  stock-purse,  long  retain'd  ; 
Rents,  debts,  and  taxes  all  fell  due, 
Claimants  were  loud,  resources  few, 
Small,  and  remote  ; — yet  time  and  care 
Her  shatter' d  fortunes  might  repair, 
If  but  a  friend. — a  friend  in  need, — 
Such  friend  would  be  a  friend  indeed, — 
Would,  by  a  mite  of  succour  lent, 
Wrongs  irretrievable  prevent ! 


140  NARRATIVES. 


She  look'd  around  for  such  an  one, 

And  sigh'd  but  spake  not, — "Is  there  none?11 

— Oh  !  if  he  come  not  ere  an  hour, 

All  will  elapse  beyond  her  power, 

And  homeless,  helpless,  hopeless,  lost, 

Mary  on  this  cold  world  be  tost 

With  all  her  babes  ;***** 

Came  such  a  friend  ! — I  must  not  say  ; 

Mine  is  a  tale  of  every  day : 

But  wouldst  thou  know  the  worst  of  all, 

The  wormwood  mingled  with  the  gall, 

Go  visit  thou,  in  their  distress, 

The  widow  and  the  fatherless, 

And  thou  shalt  find  such  wo  as  this, 

Such  breaking  up  of  earthly  bliss, 

Is  no  strange  thing, — but,  strange  to  say  ! 

The  tale — the  truth — of  every  day. 

Go,  visit  thou,  in  their  distress, 
The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless. 

1830. 


A  TALE  WITHOUT  A  NAME. 

"  O  woman  !  in  onr  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please  ; 
— When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !" 

Scott's  Marmion,  canto  vi. 

PART    I. 

He  had  no  friend  on  earth  but  thee  ; 

No  hope  in  heaven  above  ; 
By  clay  and  night,  o'er  land  and  sea, 

No  solace  but  thy  love  : 
He  wander'd  here,  he  wander'd  there, 

A  fugitive  like  Cain ; 
And  mourn'd  like  him,  in  dark  despair, 

A  brother  rashly  slain. 


A    TALE    WITHOUT    A    NAME.  141 

Rashly,  yet  not  in  sudden  wrath, 

They  quarrel?  d  in  their  pride; 
He  sprang  upon  his  hrother's  path, 

And  smote  him  that  he  died. 
A  nightmare  sat  upon  his  brain, 

All  stone  within  he  felt ; 
A  death-watch  tick'd  through  every  vein, 

Till  the  dire  blow  was  dealt. 

As  from  a  dream,  in  pale  surprise, 

Waking,  the  murderer  stood  ; 
He  met  the  victim's  closing  eyes, 

He  saw  his  brother's  blood  : 
That  blood  pursued  him  on  his  way, 

A  living,  murmuring  stream  ; 
Those  eyes  before  him  flash'd  dismay, 

With  ever-dying  gleam. 

In  vain  he  strove  to  fly  the  scene, 

And  breathe  beyond  that  time  ; 
Tormented  memory  glared  between  ; 

Immortal  seem'd  his  crime  : 
His  thoughts,  his  words,  his  actions  all 

Turn'd  on  his  fallen  brother  ; 
That  hour  he  never  could  recall, 

Nor  ever  live  another. 

To  him  the  very  clouds  stood  still, 

The  ground  appear' d  unchanged  ; 
One  light  was  ever  on  the  hill, 

— That  hill  where'er  he  ranged  : 
He  heard  the  brook,  the  birds,  the  wind, 

Sound  in  the  glen  below ; 
The  self-same  tree  he  cower'd  behind, 

He  struck  the  self-same  blow. 

Yet  was  not  reason  quite  o'erthrown, 

Nor  so  benign  his  lot, 
To  dwell  in  frenzied  grief  alone, 

All  other  wo  forgot : 


142  NARRATIVES. 


The  world  within  and  world  around. 

Clash'd  in  perpetual  strife  ; 
Present  and  past  close  interwound 

Throuoh  his  whole  thread  of  life. 


'S' 


That  thread,  inextricably  spun, 

Might  reach  eternity ; 
For  ever  doing,  never  done, 

That  moment's  deed  might  be  ; 
This  was  a  worm  that  would  not  die, 

A  fire  unquenchable : 
Ah  !  whither  shall  the  sufferer  fly  ? 

Fly  from  a  bosom-hell  ? 

He  had  no  friend  on  earth  but  thee, 

No  hope  in  heaven  above  ; 
By  day  and  night,  o'er  land  and  sea, 

No  refuge  but  thy  love  ; 
Not  time  nor  place,  nor  crime,  nor  shame, 

Could  change  thy  spousal  truth  ; 
In  desolate  old  age  the  same 

As  in  the  joy  of  youth. 

Not  death,  but  infamy,  to  'scape, 

He  left  his  native  coast ; 
To  death  in  any  other  shape, 

He  long'd  to  yield  the  ghost : 
But  infamy  his  steps  pursued, 

And  haunted  every  place, 
While  death,  though  like  a  lover  wooed, 

Fled  from  his  loathed  embrace. 

He  wander'd  here,  he  wander'd  there, 

And  she  his  angel-guide, — 
The  silent  spectre  of  despair, 

With  mercy  at  his  side  ; 
Whose  love  and  loveliness  alone 

Shed  comfort  round  his  gloom, 
•—Pale  as  the  monumental  stone 

That  watches  o'er  a  tomb. 


A    TALE    WITHOUT    A    NAME.  143 


PART    II. 

They  cross'd  the  blue  Atlantic  flood  ; 

A  storm  their  bark  assaiPd  ; 
Stern  through  the  hurricane  he  stood, 

All  hearts,  all  efforts  fail'd  : 
With  horrid  hope,  he  eyed  the  waves, 

That  flash'd  like  wild-fires  dim ; 
But  ocean,  midst  a  thousand  graves, 

Denied  a  grave  to  him. 

On  shore  he  sought  delirious  rest, 

In  crowds  of  busy  men, 
When  suddenly  the  yellow  pest 

Came  reeking  from  its  den  : 
The  city  vanish'd  at  its  breath  ; 

He  caught  the  taint,  and  lay 
A  suppliant  at  the  gate  of  death, 

— Death  spurn'd  the  wretch  away. 

In  solitude  of  streams  and  rocks, 

Mountains  and  forests  dread, 
Where  nature's  free  and  fearless  flocks 

At  her  own  hand  are  fed, 
They  hid  their  pangs  ; — but  oh  !  to  live 

In  peace, — In  peace  to  die, — 
Was  more  than  solitude  could  give, 

Or  earth's  whole  round  supply. 

The  swampy  wilderness  their  haunt, 

Where  fiery  panthers  prowl, 
Serpents  their  fatal  splendours  flaunt, 

And  wolves  and  lynxes  howl ; 
Where  alligators  throng  the  floods, 

And  reptiles,  venom-arm'd, 
Infest  the  air,  the  fields,  the  woods, 

They  slept,  they  waked  unharm'd. 


144  NARRATIVES. 


Where  the  Red  Indians,  in  their  ire, 

With  havoc  mark  the  way, 
Skulk  in  dark  ambush,  waste  with  fire, 

Or  gorge  inhuman  prey  : 
Their  blood  no  wild  marauder  shed ; 

Secure  without  defence, 
Alike,  were  his  devoted  head, 

And  her  meek  innocence. 

Weary  of  loneliness,  they  turn'd 

To  Europe's  carnage-field ; 
At  glory's  Moloch-shrine,  he  burn'd 

His  hated  breath  to  yield  : 
He  plunged  into  the  hottest  strife  ; 

He  dealt  the  deadliest  blows  ; 
To  every  foe  exposed  his  life  ; 

Powerless  were  all  his  foes. 

The  iron  thunder-bolts,  with  wings 

Of  lightning,  shunn'd  his  course ; 
Harmless  the  hail  of  battle  rings, 

The  bayonet  spends  its  force  ; 
The  sword  to  smite  him  flames  aloof, 

Descends, — but  strikes  in  vain  ; 
His  branded  front  was  weapon-proof, 

He  wore  the  mark  of  Cain. 

"  I  cannot  live, — I  cannot  die  !" 

He  mutter' d  in  despair ; 
"  This  curse  of  immortality, 

Oh,  could  I  quit, — or  bear  !" 
— Of  every  frantic  hope  bereft, 

To  meet  a  nobler  doom, 
One  refuge, — only  one, — was  left, — 

To  storm  th'  unyielding  tomb. 

Through  his  own  breast  the  passage  lay, 

The  steel  was  in  his  hand  ; 
But  fiends  upstarting  fenced  the  way, 

And  every  nerve  unmann'd  : 


A    TALE    WITHOUT    A    NAME.  145 

The  heart  that  ached  its  blood  to  spill, 

With  palsying-  horror  died  ; 
The  arm,  rebellious  to  his  will, 

Hung  withering  at  his  side. 

O  woman  !  wonderful  in  love, 

Whose  weakness  is  thy  power, 
How  did  thy  spirit  rise  above 

The  conflict  of  that  hour ! 
— She  found  him  prostrate  ; — not  a  sigh 

Escaped  her  tortured  breast, 
Nor  fell  one  tear-drop  from  her  eye, 

Where  torrents  were  supprest. 

Her  faithful  bosom  stay'd  his  head, 

That  throbb'd  with  fever  heat ; 
Her  eye  serene  compassion  shed, 

Which  his  could  never  meet : 
Her  arms  enclasp'd  his  shuddering  frame, 

While  at  his  side  she  kneel'd, 
And  utter'd  nothing  but  his  name, 

Yet  all  her  soul  reveal'd. 

Touch'd  to  the  quick,  he  gave  no  sign 

By  gentle  word  or  tone  ; 
In  him  affection  could  not  shine, 

'Twas  fire  within  a  stone  ; 
Which  no  collision  by  the  way 

Could  startle  into  light, 
Though  the  poor  heart  that  held  it,  lay 

Wrapt  in  Cimmerian  night. 

It  was  not  always  thus  ; — crewhilc 

The  kindness  of  his  youth, 
His  brow  of  innocence,  and  smile 

Of  unpretending  truth, — 
Had  left  such  strong  delight, — that  she 

Would  oft  recall  the  time, 
And  live  in  golden  memory, 

Unconscious  of  his  crime. 


13 


146  NARRATIVES. 


Though  self-abandon 'd  now  to  fate, 

The  passive  prey  of  grief, 
Sullen,  and  cold,  and  desolate, 

He  shunn'd,  he  spurn'd  relief: 
Still  onward  in  its  even  course 

Her  pure  affection  press'd, 
And  pour'd  with  soft  and  silent  force 

Its  sweetness  through  his  breast. 


'&* 


Thus  Sodom's  melancholy  lake 

No  turn  or  current  knows  ; 
Nor  breeze,  nor  billow  sounding,  break 

The  horror  of  repose ; 
While  Jordan,  through  the  sulphurous  brine, 

Rolls  a  translucent  stream, 
Whose  waves  with  answering  beauty  shine 

To  every  changing  beam. 


PART    III. 

At  length  the  hardest  trial  came, 

Again  they  cross  the  seas  ; 
The  waves  their  wilder  fury  tame, 

The  storm  becomes  a  breeze  : 
Homeward  their  easy  course  they  hold, 

And  now  in  radiant  view, 
The  purple  forelands,  tinged  with  gold, 

Larger  and  lovelier  grew. 

The  vessel  on  the  tranquil  tide 

Then  seem'd  to  lie  at  rest, 
While  Albion,  in  maternal  pride, 

Advanced  with  open  breast 
To  bid  them  welcome  on  the  main  : 

— Both  shrunk  from  her  embrace  ; 
Cold  grew  the  pulse  through  every  vein ; 

He  turn'd  away  his  face. 


A    TALE    WITHOUT    A    NAME.  147 

Silent,  apart,  on  deck  he  stands 

In  ecstasy  of  wo : 
A  brother's  blood  is  on  his  hands, 

He  sees,  he  hears  it  flow : 
Wilder  than  ocean  tempest-wrought, 

Though  deadly  calm  his  look ; 
His  partner  read  his  inmost  thought, 

And  strength  her  limbs  forsook. 

Then  first,  then  last,  a  pang  she  proved 

Too  exquisite  to  bear  : 
She  fell, — he  caught  her, — strangely  moved, 

Roused  from  intense  despair  ; 
Alive  to  feelings  lonsf  unknown, 

He  wept  upon  her  cheek, 
And  call'd  her  in  as  kind  a  tone 

As  love's  own  lips  could  speak. 

Her  spirit  heard  that  voice,  and  felt 

Arrested  on  its  flight ; 
Back  to  the  mansion  where  it  dwelt, 

Back  from  the  gates  of  light, 
That  open'd  paradise  in  trance, 

It  hasten'd  from  afar, 
Quick  as  the  startled  seaman's  glance 

Turns  from  the  polar  star. 

She  breathed  again,  look'd  up,  and  lo  ! 

Those  eyes  that  knew  not  tears, 
With  streams  of  tenderness  o'erflow ; 

That  heart,  through  hopeless  years, 
The  den  of  fiends  in  darkness  chain'd, 

That  would  not,  dared  not  rest, 
Affection  fervent,  pure,  unfeign'd, 

In  speechless  sighs  express'd. 

Content  to  live,  since  now  she  knew 

What  love  believed  before  ; 
Content  to  live,  since  he  was  true, 

And  love  could  ask  no  more, — 


148  NARRATIVES. 


This  vow  to  righteous  heaven  she  made, 

— "  Whatever  ills  befall, 
Patient,  unshrinking,  undismay'd, 

I'll  freely  suffer  all." 

They  land, — they  take  the  wonted  road, 

By  twice  ten  years  estranged ; 
The  trees,  the  fields,  their  old  abode, 

Objects  and  men  had  changed : 
Familiar  faces,  forms  endear'd, 

Each  well-remember'd  name, 
From  earth  itself  had  disappear'd, 

Or  seem'd  no  more  the  same. 

The  old  were  dead,  the  young  were  old ; 

Children  to  men  had  sprung ; 
And  every  eye  to  them  was  cold, 

And  silent  every  tongue  ; 
Friendless,  companionless,  they  roam 

Amidst  their  native  scene  ; 
In  drearier  banishment  at  home, 

Than  savage  climes  had  been. 


PART    IV. 

Yet  worse  she  fear'd ; — nor  long  they  lay 

In  safety  or  suspense  ; 
Unslumbering  justice  seized  her  prey, 

And  dragg'd  the  culprit  thence  : 
Amid  the  dungeon's  darken'd  walls, 

Down  on  the  cold  damp  floor, 
A  wreck  of  misery  he  falls, 

Close  to  the  bolted  door. 

And  she  is  gone, — while  he  remains, 

Bewilder'd  in  the  gloom, 
To  brood  in  solitude  and  chains 

Upon  a  felon's  doom : 


A    TALE   WITHOUT   A    NAME.  149 

Yes,  she  is  gone, — and  he  forlorn 

Must  groan  the  night  away, 
And  long  to  see  her  face  at  morn, 

More  welcome  than  the  day. 

The  morning  comes, — she  re-appears 

With  grief-dissembling  wiles ; 
A  sad  serenity  of  tears, 

An  agony  of  smiles, 
Her  looks  assume  ;  his  spectral  woes 

Are  vanish'd  at  the  sight ; 
And  all  within  him  seem'd  repose, 

And  all  around  him  light. 

Never  since  that  mysterious  hour, 

When  kindred  blood  was  spilt, — 
Never  had  aught  in  nature  power 

To  soothe  corroding  guilt, 
Till  the  glad  moment  when  she  cross'd 

The  threshold  of  that  place, 
And  the  wild  rapture,  when  he  lost 

Himself  in  her  embrace. 

Even  then,  while  on  her  neck  he  hung, 

Ere  yet  a  word  they  spoke, 
As  by  a  fiery  serpent  stung, 

Away  at  once  he  broke  : 
Frenzy,  remorse,  confusion,  burst 

In  tempest  o'er  his  brain  ; 
He  felt  accused,  condemn'd,  accurst, 

He  was  himself  again. 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  had  mark'd  the  flight 

Of  time's  unwearied  wing, 
Ere  winter's  long,  lugubrious  night 

Relented  into  spring: 
To  him  who  pined  for  death's  release, 

An  age  the  space  between  ! 
To  her  who  could  not  hope  for  peace, 

How  fugitive  the  scene  ! 


150  NARRATIVES. 


In  vain  she  chid  forewarning  fears, 

In  vain  repress'd  her  wo, 
Alone,  unseen,  her  sighs  and  tears 

Would  freely  heave  and  flow : 
Yet  ever  in  his  sight,  by  day, 

Her  looks  were  calm  and  kind, 
And  when  at  evening  torn  away, 

She  left  her  soul  behind. 

Hark  ! — hark  ! — the  judge  is  at  the  gate, 

The  trumpets'  thrilling  tones 
Ring  through  the  cells,  the  voice  of  fate  ! 

Re-echo' d  thence  in  groans  : 
The  sound  hath  reach'd  her  ear, — she  stands 

In  marble-chillness  dumb ; 
He  too  hath  heard,  and  smites  his  hands : 

"  I  come,"  he  cried,  "  I  come." 

Before  the  dread  tribunal  now, 

Firm  in  collected  pride, 
Without  a  scowl  upon  his  brow, 

Without  a  pang  to  hide, 
He  stood ; — superior  in  that  hour 

To  recreant  fear  and  shame  ; 
Peril  itself  inspired  the  power 

To  meet  the  worst  that  came. 

'Twas  like  the  tempest  when  he  sought 

Fate  in  the  swallowing  flood  ; 
'Twas  like  the  battle,  when  he  fought 

For  death  through  seas  of  blood : 
— A  violence  which  soon  must  break 

The  heart  that  would  not  bend, 
— A  heart  that  almost  ceased  to  ache 

In  hope  of  such  an  end. 

On  him,  while  every  eye  was  fix'd, 

And  every  lip  express'd, 
Without  a  voice,  the  rage  unmix'd, 

That  boil'd  in  every  breast ; 


A    TALE    WITHOUT    A    NAME.  151 

It  seem'd,  as  though  that  deed  abhorr'd, 

In  years  far  distant  done, 
Had  cut  asunder  ever  cord 

Of  fellowship  but  one, — 

That  one  indissolubly  bound 

A  feeble  woman's  heart : 
— Faithful  in  every  trial  found, 

Long  had  she  borne  her  part ; 
Now  at  his  helpless  side  alone, 

Girt  with  infuriate  crowds, 
Like  the  new  moon  her  meekness  shone, 

Pale  through  a  gulf  of  clouds. 

Ah  !  well  might  every  bosom  yearn, 

Responsive  to  her  sigh  ; 
And  every  visage,  dark  and  stern, 

Soften  beneath  that  eye  : 
Ah  !  well  might  every  lip  of  gall 

Th'  unutter'd  curse  suspend  ; 
Its  tones  for  her  in  blessings  fall, 

Its  breath  in  prayer  ascend. 

"Guilty  !" — that  thunder-striking  sound, 

All  shudder'd  when  they  heard  ; 
A  burst  of  horrid  joy  around 

Hail'd  the  tremendous  word  ; 
Check'd  in  a  moment, — she  was  there  ! 

The  instinctive  groan  was  hush'd  ; 
Nature,  that  forced  it,  cried,  "Forbear;" 

Indignant  justice  blush'd. 

PART    V. 

One  wo  is  past,  another  speeds 

To  brand  and  seal  his  doom ; 
The  third  day's  failing  beam  recedes, 

She  watch'd  it  into  gloom : 
That  night,  how  swift  in  its  career, 

It  flew  from  sun  to  sun ! 


NARRATIVES. 


That  night,  the  last  of  many  a  dear, 
And  many  a  dolorous  one  ! — 

That  night,  by  special  grace  she  wakes 

In  the  lone  convict's  cell, 
With  him  for  whom  the  morrow  breaks, 

To  light  to  heaven  or  hell : 
Dread  sounds  of  preparation  rend 

The  dungeon's  ponderous  roof; 
The  hammer's  doubling  strokes  descend, 

The  scaffold  creeks  aloof. 

She  watch'd  his  features  through  the  shade, 

Which  glimmering  embers  broke  ; 
Both  from  their  inmost  spirit  pray'd ; 

They  pray'd,  but  seldom  spoke  : 
Moments  meanwhile  were  years  to  him ; 

Her  grief  forgot  their  flight, 
Till  on  the  hearth  the  fire  grew  dim ; 

She  turn'd,  and  lo  !  the  light ; — 

The  light  less  welcome  to  her  eyes, 

The  loveliest  light  of  morn, 
Than  the  dark  glare  of  felon's  eyes 

Through  grated  cells  forlorn  : 
The  cool  fresh  breeze  from  heaven  that  blew, 

The  free  lark's  mounting  strains, 
She  felt  in  drops  of  icy  dew, 

She  heard,  like  groans  and  chains. 

"  Farewell !" — 'twas  but  a  word,  yet  more 

Was  utter'd  in  that  sound, 
Than  love  had  ever  told  before, 

Or  sorrow  yet  had  found  : 
They  kiss  like  meeting  flames, — they  part, 

Like  flames  asunder  driven  ; 
Lip  cleaves  to  lip,  heart  beats  on  heart, 

Till  soul  from  soul  is  riven. 

Quick  hurried  thence, — the  sullen  bell 
Its  pausing  peal  began  ; 


A    TALE    WITHOUT    A    NAME.  153 

She  hearkens, — 'tis  the  dying  knell, 

Rung  for  the  living  man  : 
The  mourner  reach'd  her  lonely  bower, 

Fell  on  her  widow'd  bed, 
And  found,  through  one  entrancing  hour, 

The  quiet  of  the  dead. 

She  woke, — and  knew  he  was  no  more  : 

"  Thy  dream  of  life  is  past ; 
That  pang  with  thee,  that  pang  is  o'er, 

The  bitterest  and  the  last!" 
She  cried  : — then  scenes  of  sad  amaze 

Flash'd  on  her  inward  eye  ; 
A  field,  a  troop,  a  crowd  to  gaze, 

A  murderer  led  to  die ! 

He  eyed  the  ignominious  tree, 

Look'd  round,  but  saw  no  friend  ; 
Was  plunged  into  eternity  ; 

— Is  this — is  this  the  end  ? 
Her  spirit  follow'd  him  afar 

Into  the  world  unknown, 
And  saw  him  standing  at  that  bar, 

Where  each  must  stand  alone. 

Silence  and  darkness  hide  the  rest 

— Long  she  survived  to  mourn  ; 
But  peace  sprang  up  within  her  breast, 

From  trouble  meekly  borne  : 
And  higher,  holier  joys  had  she, 

A  Christian's  hopes  above, 
The  prize  of  suffering  constancy, 

The  crown  of  faithful  love. 

1821. 


154  NARRATIVES. 


A  SNAKE  IN  THE  GRASS. 

A   TALE    FOR   CHILDREN  I    FOUNDED    ON    FACTS. 

She  had  a  secret  of  her  own, 

That  little  girl  of  whom  we  speak, 

O'er  which  she  oft  would  muse  alone, 
Till  the  blush  came  across  her  cheek, 

A  rosy  cloud,  that  glow'd  awhile, 

Then  melted  in  a  sunny  smile. 

There  was  so  much  to  charm  the  eye, 
So  much  to  move  delightful  thought, 

Awake  at  night  she  loved  to  lie, 

Darkness  to  her  that  image  brought ; 

She  murmur'd  of  it  in  her  dreams, 

Like  the  low  sounds  of  gurgling  streams. 

What  secret  thus  the  soul  possess'd 
Of  one  so  young  and  innocent  ? 

Oh  !  nothing  but  a  robin's  nest, 
O'er  which  in  ecstasy  she  bent ; 

That  treasure  she  herself  had  found, 

With  five  brown  eggs,  upon  the  ground. 

When  first  it  flash'd  upon  her  sight, 
Bolt  flew  the  dam  above  her  head ; 

She  stoop'd,  and  almost  shriek'd  with  fright ; 
But  spying  soon  that  little  bed 

With  feathers,  moss,  and  horse-hairs  twined, 

Rapture  and  wonder  fill'd  her  mind. 

Breathless  and  beautiful  she  stood, 
Her  ringlets  o'er  her  bosom  fell ; 

With  hands  uplift,  in  attitude, 

As  though  a  pulse  might  break  the  spell, 

While  through  the  shade  her  pale,  fine  face 

Shone  like  a  star  amidst  the  place. 


A    SNAKE    IN    THE    GRASS.  ]55 

She  stood  so  silent,  stay'd  so  long, 

The  parent-birds  forgot  their  fear ; 
Cock-robin  trill'd  his  small,  sweet  song, 

In  notes  like  dew-drops  trembling,  clear ; 
From  spray  to  spray  the  shyer  hen 
Dropt  softly  on  her  nest  again. 

There  Lucy  mark'd  her  slender  bill 

On  this  side,  and  on  that  her  tail, 
Peer'd  o'er  the  edge, — while,  fix'd  and  still, 

Two  bright  black  eyes  her  own  assail, 
Which,  in  eye-language,  seem  to  say, 
"  Peep,  pretty  maiden  !  then,  away  !" 

Away,  away,  at  length  she  crept, 

So  pleased,  she  knew  not  how  she  trode, 

Yet  light  on  tottering  tiptoe  stept, 

As  if  birds'  eggs  strew'd  all  the  road ; 

With  folded  arms,  and  lips  compress'd, 

To  keep  her  joy  within  her  breast. 

Morn,  noon,  and  eve,  from  day  to  day, 

By  stealth  she  visited  that  spot : 
Alike  her  lessons  and  her  play 

Were  slightly  conn'd,  or  half  forgot ; 
And  when  the  callow  young  were  hatch'd, 
With  infant  fondness  Lucy  watch' d  : — 

Watch'd  the  kind  parents  dealing  food 

To  clamorous  suppliants  all  agape  ; 
Watch'd  the  small,  naked,  unform'd  brood 

Improve  in  size,  and  plume,  and  shape, 
Till  feathers  clad  the  fluttering  things, 
And  the  whole  group  seem'd  bills  and  wings. 

Unconsciously  within  her  breast, 

Where  many  a  brooding  fancy  lay. 
She  plann'd  to  bear  the  tiny  nest, 

And  chirping  choristers  away, 
In  stately  cage  to  tune  their  throats, 
And  learn  untaught  their  mother-notes. 


156  NARRATIVES. 


One  morn,  when  fairly  fledged  for  flight, 

Blithe  Lucy,  on  her  visit,  found 
What  seem'd  a  necklace,  glittering  bright, 

Twined  round  the  nest,  twined  round  and  round, 
With  emeralds,  pearls,  and  sapphires  set, 
Rich  as  my  lady's  coronet. 

She  stretch'd  her  hand  to  seize  the  prize, 

When  up  a  serpent  popt  its  head, 
But  glid  like  wild-fire  from  her  eyes, 

Hissing  and  rustling  as  it  fled ; 
She  utter'd  one  short  shrilling  scream, 
Then  stood,  as  startled  from  a  dream. 

Her  brother  Tom,  who  long  had  known 
That  something  drew  her  feet  that  way, 

Curious  to  catch  her  there  alone, 
Had  follow'd  her  that  fine  May-day ; 

— Lucy,  bewilder'd  by  her  trance, 

Came  to  herself  at  his  first  glance. 

Then  in  her  eyes  sprang  welcome  tears  ; 

They  fell  as  showers  in  April  fall ; 
He  kiss'd  her,  coax'd  her,  soothed  her  fears, 

Till  she  in  frankness  told  him  all : 
— Tom  was  a  bold,  adventurous  boy, 
And  heard  the  dreadful  tale  with  joy. 

For  he  had  learnt, — in  some  far  land, — 
How  children  catch  the  sleeping  snake  ; 

Eager  himself  to  try  his  hand, 
He  cut  a  hazel  from  the  brake, 

And  like  a  hero  set  to  work, 

To  make  a  lithe,  long-handled  fork. 

Brother  and  sister  then  withdrew, 
Leaving  the  nestlings  safely  there  ; 

Between  their  heads  the  mother  flew, 
Prompt  to  resume  her  nursery  care : 

But  Tom,  whose  breast  for  glory  burn'd, 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  return' d. 


A    SNAKE    IN    THE    GRASS.  157 

With  him  came  Ned,  as  cool  and  sly 

As  Tom  was  resolute  and  stout ; 
So,  fair  and  softly,  they  drew  nigh, 

Cowering  and  keeping  sharp  look-out, 
Till  they  had  reach'd  the  copse, — to  see, 
But  not  alarm  the  enemy. 

Guess,  with  what  transport  they  descried, 

How,  as  before,  the  serpent  lay 
Coil'd  round  the  nest,  in  slumbering  pride  ; — 

The  urchins  chuckled  o'er  their  prey, 
And  Tom's  right  hand  Avas  lifted  soon, 
Like  Greenland  whaler's  with  harpoon. 

Across  its  neck  the  fork  he  brought, 

And  pinn'd  it  fast  upon  the  ground ; 
The  reptile  woke,  and  quick  as  thought 

Curl'd  round  the  stick,  curl'd  round  and  round  ; 
While,  head  and  tail,  Ned's  nimble  hands 
Tied  at  each  end,  with  pack-thread  bands. 

Scarce  was  the  enemy  secured, 

When  Lucy  timidly  drew  near, 
But  by  their  shouting  well  assured, 

Eyed  the  green  captive  void  of  fear ; 
The  lads,  stark  wild  with  victory,  flung 
Their  caps  aloft, — they  danced,  they  sung. 

But  Lucy,  with  an  anxious  look, 

Turn'd  to  her  own  dear  nest,  when  lo  ! 

To  legs  and  wings  the  young  ones  took, 
Hopping  and  tumbling  to  and  fro ; 

The  parents  chattering  from  above 

With  all  the  earnestness  of  love. 

Alighting  now  among  their  train, 

They  peck'd  them  on  new  feats  to  try ; 

But  many  a  lesson  seem'd  in  vain, 
Before  the  giddy  things  would  fly ; 

Lucy  both  Iaugh'd  and  cried,  to  see 

How  ill  they  play'd  at  liberty. 

14 


158  NARRATIVES. 


I  need  not  tell  the  snake's  sad  doom, 
You  may  be  sure  he  lived  not  long ; 

Cork'd  in  a  bottle  for  a  tomb, 
Preserved  in  spirits  and  in  song, 

His  skin  in  Tom's  museum  shines, 

You  read  his  story  in  these  lines. 


1831. 


THE  CAST-AWAY  SHIP. 

The  subjects  of  the  following  poems  were  suggested  by  the  loss  of  the  Blenheim, 
commanded  by  Sir  Thomas  Trowbridge,  which  was  separated  from  the  ves- 
sels under  its  convoy,  during  a  storm  in  the  Indian  Ocean. — The  Admiral's 
son  afterwards  made  a  voyage,  without  success,  in  search  of  his  father. — 
Trowbridge  was  one  of  Nelson's  captains  at  the  Battle  of  the  Nile,  but  his 
ship  unfortunately  ran  a-ground  as  he  was  bearing  down  on  the  enemy. 

A  vessel  sail'd  from  Albion's  shore, 

To  utmost  India  bound, 
Its  crest  a  hero's  pendant  bore, 

With  broad  sea-laurels  crown'd 
In  many  a  fierce  and  noble  fight, 
Though  foil'd  on  that  Egyptian  night 

When  Gallia's  host  was  drown'd, 
And  Nelson  o'er  his  country's  foes, 
Like  the  destroying  angel  rose. 

A  gay  and  gallant  company, 

With  shouts  that  rend  the  air, 
For  warrior-wreaths  upon  the  sea, 

Their  joyful  brows  prepare  : 
Bat  many  a  maiden's  sigh  was  sent, 
And  many  a  mothers  blessing  went, 

And  many  a  father's  prayer, 
With  that  exulting  ship  to  sea, 
With  that  undaunted  company. 

The  deep,  that  like  a  cradled  child 
In  breathing  slumber  lay, 


THE    CAST-AWAY    SHIP.  159 

More  warmly  blush'd,  more  sweetly  smiled, 

As  rose  the  kindling  day : 
Through  ocean's  mirror,  dark  and  clear, 
Reflected  clouds  and  skies  appear 

In  morning's  rich  array ; 
The  land  is  lost,  the  waters  glow, 
'Tis  heaven  above,  around,  below. 

Majestic  o'er  the  sparkling  tide, 

See  the  tall  vessel  sail, 
With  swelling  winds  in  shadowy  pride, 

A  swan  before  the  gale  : 
Deep-laden  merchants  rode  behind  ; 
— But,  fearful  of  the  fickle  wind, 

Eritannia's  cheek  grew  pale, 
When,  lessening  through  the  flood  of  light, 
Their  leader  vanish'd  from  her  sight. 

Oft  had  she  hail'd  its  trophied  prow, 

Victorious  from  the  war, 
And  banner'd  masts  that  would  not  bow, 

Though  riven  with  many  a  scar  ; 
Oft  had  her  oaks  their  tribute  brought, 
To  rib  its  flanks,  with  thunder  fraught ; 

But  late  her  evil  star 
Had  cursed  it  on  its  homeward  way, 
— "  The  spoiler  shall  become  the  prey." 

Thus  warn'd,  Britannia's  anxious  heart 

Throbb'd  with  prophetic  wo, 
When  she  beheld  that  ship  depart, 

A  fair  ill-omen'd  show  ! 
So  views  the  mother,  through  her  tears, 
The  daughter  of  her  hopes  and  fears, 

When  hectic  beauties  glow 
On  the  frail  cheek,  where  sweetly  bloom 
The  roses  of  an  early  tomb. 

No  fears  the  brave  adventurers  knew, 
Peril  and  death  they  spurn'd  ; 


100  NARRATIVES. 


Like  full-fledged  eagles  forth  they  flew ; 

Jove's  birds,  that  proudly  burn'd 
In  battle-hurricanes  to  wield 
His  lightnings  on  the  billowy  field ; 

And  many  a  look  they  turn'd 
O'er  the  blue  waste  of  waves  to  spy 
A  Gallic  ensign  in  the  sky. 

But  not  to  crush  the  vaunting  foe, 

In  combat  on  the  main, 
Nor  perish  by  a  glorious  blow, 

In  mortal  triumph  slain, 
Was  their  unutterable  fate ; 
— That  story  would  the  Muse  relate, 

The  song  might  rise  in  vain ; 
In  ocean's  deepest,  darkest  bed, 
The  secret  slumbers  with  the  dead. 

On  India's  long-expecting  strand 
Their  sails  were  never  furl'd  ; 
Never  on  known  or  friendly  land, 

By  storms  their  keel  was  hurl'd ; 
Their  native  soil  no  more  they  trod, 
They  rest  beneath  no  hallow'd  sod ; 

Throughout  the  living  world, 
This  sole  memorial  of  their  lot 
Remains, — they  were,  and  they  are  not. 

The  spirit  of  the  Cape*  pursued 
Their  long  and  toilsome  way  ; 

At  length,  in  ocean-solitude, 
He  sprang  upon  his  prey ; 

"  Havoc  !"  the  shipwreck-demon  cried, 

Loosed  all  his  tempests  on  the  tide, 
Gave  all  his  lightnings  play ; 


*  The  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  formerly  called  the  Cape  of  Storms.— See  Camoen's 
Lusiad,  book  v. 


THE    SEQUEL.  161 


The  abyss  recoil'd  before  the  blast, 
Firm  stood  the  seamen  till  the  last. 

Like  shooting  stars,  athwart  the  gloom 
The  merchant-sails  were  sped  ; 

Yet  oft,  before  its  midnight  doom, 
They  mark'd  the  high  mast-head 

Of  that  devoted  vessel,  tost 

By  winds  and  floods,  now  seen,  now  lost ; 
While  every  gun-fire  spread 

A  dimmer  flash,  a  fainter  roar ; 

— At  length  they  saw,  they  heard  no  more. 

There  are  to  whom  that  ship  was  dear, 

For  love  and  kindred's  sake  ; 
When  these  the  voice  of  Rumour  hear, 

Their  inmost  heart  shall  quake, 
Shall  doubt,  and  fear,  and  wish,  and  grieve, 
Believe,  and  long  to  unbelieve, 

But  never  cease  to  ache  ; 
Still  doom'd,  in  sad  Suspense,  to  bear 
The  Hope  that  keeps  alive  Despair. 


THE  SEQUEL. 


He  sought  his  sire  from  shore  to  shore, 

He  sought  him  day  by  day  ; 
The  prow  he  track'd  was  seen  no  more, 

Breasting  the  ocean-spray  : 
Yet,  as  the  winds  his  voyage  sped, 
He  sail'd  above  his  father's  head, 

Unconscious  where  it  lay. 
Deep,  deep  beneath  the  rolling  main  ; 
— He  sought  his  sire  ;  he  sought  in  vain. 


14" 


162  NARRATIVES. 


Son  of  the  brave  !  no  longer  weep  ; 

Still  with  affection  true,- 
Along  the  wild  disastrous  deep, 

Thy  father's  course  pursue  : 
Full  in  his  wake  of  glory  steer, 
His  spirit  prompts  thy  bold  career, 

His  compass  guides  thee  through  ; 
So,  while  thy  thunders  awe  the  sea, 
Britain  shall  find  thy  sire  in  thee. 


1810. 


TKIBUTARY    POEMS. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF 


THE   LATE   RICHARD   REYNOLDS, 

Who  died  on  the  10th  of  September,  1816. 


The  author  has  nothing  to  say  in  favour  of  the  following  verses,  except  that 
they  are  the  sincere  tribute  of  his  affections,  as  well  as  his  mind,  to  the  Christian 
virtues  of  the  deceased. 

Richard  Reynolds  was  one  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  but,  as  far  as  human 
judgment  can  extend,  he  was  one  of  those  who  also  are  Christians,  not  in  word 
only  but  in  deed.  To  his  memory  the  inhabitants  of  Bristol  have  already  insti- 
tuted— and  may  their  posterity  perpetuate  it ! — the  noblest  monument,  perhaps, 
that  man  ever  raised  in  honour  of  his  fellow-man.  This  will  be  sufficiently 
explained  by  the  following  advertisement : — 

"At  a  general  meeting  of  the  inhabitants  of  Bristol,  held  in  the  Guildhall  of 
that  city,  on  Wednesday,  the  2d  October,  1818,  the  right  worshipful  the  Mayor 
in  the  chair : — It  was  unanimously  resolved,  That,  in  consequence  of  the  severe 
loss  which  society  has  sustained  by  the  death  of  the  venerable  Richard  Reynolds, 
and  in  order  to  perpetuate,  as  far  as  may  be,  the  great  and  important  benefits  he 
has  conferred  upon  the  city  of  Bristol  and  its  vicinity,  and  to  excite  others  to 
imitate  the  example  of  the  departed  philanthropist,  an  Association  be  formed 
under  the  designation  of  'Reynolds's  Commemoration  Society.'  That  the 
members  of  the  Society  do  consist  of  life  subscribe  s  of  ten  guineas  or  upwards, 
and  annual  subscribers  of  one  guinea  or  upwards ;  and  that  the  object  of  this 
Society  be  to  grant  relief  to  persons  in  necessitous  circumstances,  and  also  occa- 
sional assistance  to  other  benevolent  institutions  in  or  near  the  city,  to  enable 
them  to  continue  or  increase  their  usefulness,  and  that  especial  regard  be  had  to 
the  Samaritan  Society,  of  which  Richard  Reynolds  was  the  founder.  That  the 
cases  to  be  assisted  and  relieved  be  entirely  in  the  discretion  of  the  committee  ; 
but  it  is  recommended  to  them  not  to  grant  any  relief  or  assistance  without  a 
careful  investigation  of  the  circumstances  of  each  case  ;  and  that,  in  imitation  of 
the  example  of  the  individual  whom  the  Society  is  designed  to  commemorate,  it 
be  considered  as  a  sacred  duty  of  the  committee,  to  the  latest  period  of  its 
existence,  to  be  wholly  uninfluenced  in  the  distribution  of  its  funds  by  any  con- 
siderations of  sect  or  party." 

The  third  piece  in  the  ensuing  series,  entitled  "A  Good  Man's  Monument," 
was  intended  for  a  figurative  representation  of  this  sublime  and  universal  cha- 
rity. The  resemblance  ought  to  have  been  sufficiently  obvious,  without  being 
pointed  out  here. 

1(33 


164  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


I. THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS. 

This  place  is  holy  ground ; 

World,  with  thy  cares,  away  ! 
Silence  and  darkness  reign  around, 
But,  lo  !  the  break  of  day  : 
What  bright  and  sudden  dawn  appears, 
To  shine  upon  this  scene  of  tears  ? 

'Tis  not  the  morning  light, 

That  wakes  the  lark  to  sing ; 
'Tis  not  a  meteor  of  the  night, 
Nor  track  of  angel's  wing  : 
It  is  an  uncreated  beam, 
Like  that  which  shone  on  Jacob's  dream. 

Eternity  and  Time 

Met  for  a  moment  here  ; 
From  earth  to  heaven,  a  scale  sublime 
Rested  on  either  sphere, 
Whose  steps  a  saintly  figure  trod, 
By  Death's  cold  hand  led  home  to  God. 

He  landed  in  our  view, 

Midst  flaming  hosts  above  ; 
Whose  ranks  stood  silent,  while  be  drew 
Nigh  to  the  throne  of  love, 
And  meekly  took  the  Lowest  seat, 
Yet  nearest  his  Redeemer's  feet. 

ThrillM  with  ecstatic  awe, 

Entranced  our  spirits  fell, 
Ami  Baw — yet  wist  not  what  they  saw 

And  hoard — no  tongue  can  toll 
What  sounds  the  oar  o\    rapturo  caught, 

What  glory  fiU'd  the  eye  of  thought. 

Thus  far  above  the  pole, 
( >n  wings  of  mounting  tiro. 

Faith  may  pursue  th'  enfranchised  soul. 
But  soon  her  pinions  tire  ; 


THE    LATE    RICHARD    REYNOLDS.  165 

It  is  not  given  to  mortal  man 
Eternal  mysteries  to  scan. 

^Behold  the  bed  of  death  ; 
This  pale  and  lovely  clay ; 
Heard  ye  the  sob  of  parting  breath  ? 
Mark'd  ye  the  eye's  last  ray  ? 
No ; — life  so  sweetly  ceased  to  be, 
It  lapsed  in  immortality. 

Could  tears  revive  the  dead, 

Rivers  should  swell  our  eyes  ; 
Could  sighs  recall  the  spirit  fled, 
We  would  not  quench  our  sighs, 
Till  love  relumed  this  alter'd  mien, 
And  all  th'  imbodied  soul  were  seen. 

Bury  the  dead ; — and  weep 
In  stillness  o'er  the  loss  ; 
Bury  the  dead ; — in  Christ  they  sleep, 
Who  bore  on  earth  his  cross, 
And  from  the  grave  their  dust  shall  rise, 
In  his  own  image  to  the  skies. 


II. THE    MEMORY    OF    THE    JUST. 

Strike  a  louder,  loftier  lyre  ; 
Bolder,  sweeter  strains  employ  ; 
Wake,  Remembrance  ! — and  inspire 
Sorrow  with  the  song  of  joy. 

Who  was  He,  for  whom  our  tears 
Flow'd,  and  will  not  cease  to  flow  ? 

— Full  of  honours  and  of  years, 
In  the  dust  his  head  lies  low. 

Yet  resurgent  from  the  dust, 
Springs  aloft  his  mighty  name  ; 

For  the  memory  of  the  Just 
Lives  in  everlasting  fame. 


166  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


He  was  One,  whose  open  face 

Did  his  inmost  heart  reveal ; 
One,  who  wore  with  meekest  grace, 

On  his  forehead,  Heaven's  broad  seal. 

Kindness  all  his  looks  express'd, 

Charity  was  every  word; 
Him  the  eye  beheld,  and  bless'd , 

And  the  ear  rejoiced  that  heard. 

Like  a  patriarchal  sage, 

Holy,  humble,  courteous,  mild, 

He  could  blend  the  awe  of  age 
With  the  sweetness  of  a  child. 

As  a  Cedar  of  the  Lord, 

On  the  height  of  Lebanon, 
Shade  and  shelter  doth  afford, 

From  the  tempest  and  the  sun : — 

While  in  green  luxuriant  prime, 
Fragrant  airs  its  boughs  diffuse, 

From  its  locks  it  shakes  sublime, 
O'er  the  hills,  the  morning  dews  : — 

Thus  he  flourish' d,  tall  and  strong, 
Glorious  in  perennial  health  ; 

Thus  he  scatter'd,  late  and  long, 
All  his  plenitude  of  wealth  !— 

Wealth,  which  prodigals  had  deem'd 
Worth  the  soul's  uncounted  cost ; 

Wealth,  which  misers  had  esteem' d 
Cheap,  though  heaven  itself  were  lost. 

This,  with  free  unsparing  hand 
To  the  poorest  child  of  need, 

This  he  threw  around  the  land, 
Like  the  sower's  precious  seed. 

In  the  world's  great  harvest  day, 
Every  grain  on  every  ground, 


THE    LATE    RICHARD    REYNOLDS.  167 

Stony,  thorny,  by  the  way, 

Shall  an  hundred  fold  be  found. 

Yet,  like  noon's  refulgent  blaze, 

Though  he  shone  from  east  to  west, 

Far  withdrawn  from  public  gaze, 
Secret  goodness  pleased  him  best. 

As  the  sun,  retired  from  sight, 

Through  the  purple  evening  gleams, 

Or,  unrisen,  clothes  the  night, 
In  the  mornjflg's  golden  beams : 

Thus  beneath  th'  horizon  dim, 

He  would  hide  his  radiant  head, 
And  on  eyes  that  saw  not  him, 

Light  and  consolation  shed. 

Oft  his  silent  spirit  went, 

Like  an  angel  from  the  throne, 
On  benign  commissions  bent, 

In  the  fear  of  God  alone. 

Then  the  widow's  heart  would  sing, 

As  she  turn'd  her  wheel,  for  joy ; 
Then  the  bliss  of  hope  would  spring 

On  the  outcast  orphan  boy. 

To  the  blind,  the  deaf,  the  lame, 

To  the  ignorant  and  vile, 
Stranger,  captive,  slave,  he  came 

With  a  welcome  and  a  smile. 

Help  to  all  he  did  dispense, 

Gold,  instruction,  raiment,  food, 
Like  the  gifts  of  Providence, 

To  the  evil  and  the  good. 

Deeds  of  mercy,  deeds  unknown, 

Shall  eternity  record, 
Which  he  durst  not  call  his  own, 

For  he  did  them  to  the  Lord. 


TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


As  the  Earth  puts  forth  her  flowers, 
Heaven-ward  breathing  from  below ; 

As  the  clouds  descend  in  showers, 
When  the  southern  breezes  blow ; 

Thus  his  renovated  mind, 

Warm  with  pure  celestial  love, 

Sheds  its  influence  on  mankind, 
While  its  hopes  aspired  above. 

Full  of  faith  at  length  he  died, 
And,  victorious  in  the^  race, 

Won  the  crown  for  which  he  vied 
— Not  of  merit,  but  of  grace. 


III. A   GOOD    MAN'S    MONUMENT. 

The  pyre,  that  burns  the  aged  Bramin's  bones, 
Runs  cold  in  blood,  and  issues  living  groans, 
When  the  whole  Harem  with  the  husband  dies, 
And  demons  dance  around  the  sacrifice. 

In  savage  realms,  when  tyrants  yield  their  breath, 
Herds,  flocks,  and  slaves,  attend  their  lord  in  death ; 
Arms,  chariots,  carcases,  a  horrid  heap, 
Rust  at  his  side,  or  share  his  mouldering  sleep. 

When  heroes  fall  triumphant  on  the  plain ; 
For  millions  conquer'd,  and  ten  thousands  slain  ; 
For  cities  levell'd,  kingdoms  drench'd  in  blood, 
Navies  annihilated  on  the  flood ; 
— The  pageantry  of  public  grief  requires 
The  splendid  homage  of  heroic  lyres ; 
And  genius  moulds  impassion'd  brass  to  breathe 
The  dauntless  spirit  of  the  dust  beneath, 
Calls  marble  honour  from  its  cavern'd  bed, 
And  bids  it  live — the  proxy  of  the  dead. 

Reynolds  expires,  a  nobler  chief  than  these  ; 
No  blood  of  widows  stains  his  obsequies  ; 


THE    LATE    RICHARD    REYNOLDS.  169 

But  widows'  tears,  in  sad  bereavement,  fall, 

And  foundling  voices  on  their  father  call : 

No  slaves,  no  hecatombs,  his  relics  crave, 

To  gorge  the  worm,  and  crowd  his  quiet  grave ; 

But  sweet  repose  his  slumbering  ashes  find, 

As  if  in  Salem's  sepulchre  enshrined  ; 

And  watching  angels  waited  for  the  day, 

When  Christ  should  bid  them  roll  the  stone  away. 

Not  in  the  fiery  hurricane  of  strife, 
'Midst  slaughter'd  legions,  he  resign'd  his  life  ; 
But  peaceful  as  the  twilight's  parting  ray, 
His  spirit  vanish'd  from  its  house  of  clay, 
And  left  on  kindred  souls  such  power  imprest, 
They  seem'd  with  him  to  enter  into  rest. 
Hence  no  vain  pomp,  his  glory  to  prolong, 
No  airy  immortality  of  song  ; 
No  sculptured  imagery,  of  bronze  or  stone, 
To  make  his  lineaments  for  ever  known, 
Reynolds  requires : — his  labours,  merits,  name, 
Demand  a  monument  of  surer  fame  ; 
Not  to  record  and  praise  his  virtues  past, 
But  show  them  living;,  while  the  world  shall  last ; 
Not  to  bewail  one  Reynolds,  snatch'd  from  earth, 
But  give,  in  every  age,  a  Reynolds  birth ; 
In  every  age  a  Reynolds  ;  born  to  stand 
A  prince  among  the  worthies  of  the  land, 
By  Nature's  title,  written  in  his  face  : 
More  than  a  prince — a  sinner  saved  by  grace, 
Prompt  at  his  meek  and  lowly  Master's  call 
To  prove  himself  the  minister  of  all. 

Bristol !  to  thee  the  eye  of  Albion  turns  ; 
At  thought  of  thee  thy  country's  spirit  burns  ; 
For  in  thy  walls,  as  on  her  dearest  ground, 
Are  "  British  minds  and  British  manners"  found  : 
And  'midst  the  wealth,  which  Avon's  waters  pour 
From  every  clime,  on  thy  commercial  shore, 
Thou  hast  a  native  mine  of  worth  untold : 
Thine  heart  is  not  encased  in  rigid  gold, 

OL.  II.  15 


170  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


Wither'd  to  mummy,  steel'd  against  distress  ; 

No — free  as  Severn's  waves,  that  spring  to  bless 

Their  parent  hills,  but  as  they  roll  expand 

In  argent  beauty  through  a  lovelier  land, 

And  widening,  brightening  to  the  western  sun, 

In  floods  of  glory  through  thy  channel  run  ; 

Thence,  mingling  with  the  boundless  tide,  are  hurl'd 

In  Ocean's  chariot  round  the  utmost  world : 

Thus  flow  thine  heart-streams,  warm  and  unconfined, 

At  home,  abroad,  to  wo  of  every  kind. 

Worthy  wert  thou  of  Reynolds  ; — worthy  he 

To  rank  the  first  of  Britons  even  in  thee. 

Reynolds  is  dead ; — thy  lap  receives  his  dust 

Until  the  resurrection  of  the  just : 

Reynolds  is  dead  ;  but  while  thy  rivers  roll, 

Immortal  in  thy  bosom  live  his  soul ! 

Go,  build  his  monument : — and  let  it  be 
Firm  as  the  land,  but  open  as  the  sea. 
Low  in  his  grave  the  strong  foundations  lie, 
Yet  be  the  dome  expansive  as  the  sky, 
On  crystal  pillars  resting  from  above, 
Its  sole  supporters — works  of  faith  and  love; 
So  clear,  so  pure,  that  to  the  keenest  sight, 
They  cast  no  shadow  :  all  within  be  light ; 
No  walls  divide  the  area,  nor  enclose ; 
Charter  the  whole  to  every  wind  that  blows  ; 
Then  rage  the  tempest,  flash  the  lightnings  blue, 
And  thunders  roll, — they  pass  unharming  through. 

One  simple  altar  in  the  midst  be  placed, 
With  this,  and  only  this,  inscription  graced, 
The  song  of  angels  at  ImmanueFs  birth, 
"  Glory  to  God !  good  will  and  peace  on  earth." 
There  be  thy  duteous  sons  a  tribe  of  priests, 
Not  offering  incense,  nor  the  blood  of  beasts, 
But  with  their  gifts  upon  that  altar  spread ; 
— Health  to  the  sick,  and  to  the  hungry  bread, 
Beneficence  to  all,  their  hands  shall  deal, 
With  Reynolds'  single  eye  and  hallow'd  zeal. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    ROWLAND    HODGSON,    ESQ.  171 

Pain,  want,  misfortune,  thither  shall  repair; 
Folly  and  vice  reclaim'd  shall  worship  there 
The  God  of  him — in  whose  transcendent  mind 
Stood  such  a  temple,  free  to  all  mankind : 
Thy  God,  thrice-honour'd  city  !  bids  thee  raise 
That  fallen  temple,  to  the  end  of  days  : 
Obey  his  voice  ;  fulfil  thine  high  intent ; 
— Yea,  be  thyself  the  Good  Man's  Monument ! 

1818. 


TO   THE  MEMORY   OF 

ROWLAND  HODGSON,  ESQ., 

OF   SHEFFIELD; 

Who  departed  this  life  January  27,  1837,  aged  63  years.  Through  a  Ion?  period 
of  severe  bodily  affliction,  aggravated  in  the  sequel  by  loss  of  eight,  he  sig- 
nally exemplified  tin.-  Christian  graces  of  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  with  hum- 
ble resignation  to  t lie  will  of  God.  He  had  been  from  his  youth  one  of  the 
most  active,  liberal,  and  unwearied  supporters  of  benevolent  and  evangelical 
institutions  throughout  this  neighbourhood  and  elsewhere,  in  foreign  lands 
a>  well  as  at  home.  The  writer  of  these  lines  had  the  happiness  to  be  his 
travelling  companion  on  annual  visits  and  temporary  sojourns,  which  they 
made  together  in  many  parts  of  the  kingdom,  from  the  autumn  of  lbl7  to  the 
same  season  of  163G. 

PART    I. 

Go  where  thy  heart  had  gone  before, 

And  thy  heart's  treasure  lay ; 
Go,  and  with  open'd  eye  explore 

Heaven's  uncreated  day : 
Light  in  the  Lord,  light's  fountain,  see, 
And  light  in  Him  for  ever  be. 

But  darkness  thou  has  left  behind ; 

No  sign,  no  sight,  nor  sound, 
At  home,  abroad,  of  thee  I  find, 

Where  thou  wert  ever  found  ; 
Then  gaze  I  on  thy  vacant  place, 
Till  my  soul's  eye  meets  thy  soul's  face  : — 


172  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


As,  many  a  time,  quite  through  the  veil 

Of  flesh  'twas  wont  to  shine, 
When  thy  meek  aspect,  saintly  pale, 

In  kindness  turn'd  to  mine, 
And  the  quench'd  eye  its  film  forgot, 
Look'd  full  on  me, — yet  saw  me  not ! 

Then,  through  the  body's  dim  eclipse, 

What  humble  accents  broke, 
While,  breathing  prayer  or  praise,  thy  lips 

Of  light  within  thee  spoke  ; 
Midst  Egypt's  darkness  to  be  felt, 
Thy  mind  in  its  own  Goshen  dwelt. 

Nor  less  in  days  of  earlier  health, 

When  life  to  thee  was  dear, 
Borne  on  the  flowing  tide  of  wealth, 

To  me  this  truth  was  clear, 
That  hope  in  Christ  was  thy  best  health, 
Riches  that  make  not  wings  thy  wealth. 

When  frequent  sickness  bow'd  thy  head, 

And  every  labouring  breath, 
As  with  a  heavier  impulse,  sped 

Thy  downward  course  to  death, 
Faith  falter'd  not  that  hope  to  show, 
Though  words,  like  fife's  last  drops,  fell  slow. 

How  often  when  I  turn'd  away, 

As  having  seen  the  last 
Of  thee  on  earth,  my  heart  would  say, 

— "  When  my  few  days  are  past, 
Such  strength  be  mine,  though  nature  shrink, 
The  cup  my  Father  gives,  to  drink  !" 

I  saw  thee  slumbering  in  thy  shroud, 

As  yonder  moon  I  view, 
Now  glimmering  through  a  snow-white  cloud, 

Midst  heaven's  eternal  blue  ; 
— I  saw  thee  lower'd  into  the  tftmb, 
Like  that  cloud  deepening  into  gloom. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    ROWLAND    HODGSON,   ESQ.  173 

All  darkness  thou  hast  left  behind ; 

— It  was  not  thee  they  wound 
In  dreary  grave-clothes,  and  consign'd 

To  perish  in  the  ground ; 
'Twas  but  thy  mantle,  dropt  in  sight, 
When  thou  wert  vanishing  in  light. 

That  mantle,  in  earth's  wardrobe  lain, 

A  frail  but  precious  trust, 
Thou  wilt  reclaim  and  wear  again, 

When,  freed  from  worms  and  dust, 
The  bodies  of  the  saints  shall  be 
Their  robes  of  immortality. 

PART    II. 

These  fragments  of  departed  years, 

I  gather  up  and  store, 
Since  thou, — in  mercy  to  our  tears 

And  prayers, — art  heal'd  no  more. 
In  that  last  war  was  no  discharge  ; 
— Yet  walks  thy  ransom'd  soul  at  large. 

For  what,  my  friend,  was  death  to  thee  ? 

A  king  ?  a  conqueror  ? — No  ; 
Death,  swallow'd  up  in  victory, 

Himself  a  captive  foe, 
Was  sent  in  chains  to  thy  release, 
By  Him  who  on  the  cross  made  peace. 

When  year  by  year,  on  pilgrimage, 

We  journey 'd  side  by  side, 
And  pitch'd  and  struck,  from  stage  to  stage, 

Our  tents,  had  we  one  guide  ? 
One  aim  ? — are  all  our  meetings  past  I 
Must  our  last  parting  be  our  last  \ 

Nay,  God  forbid  ! — if  hand  and  heart, 

On  earth  we  loved  to  roam, 
— Where  once  to  meet  is  ne'er  to  part, 

In  heaven's  eternal  home, 


174  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


Our  Father's  house,  not  made  with  hands, 
May  we  renew  our  friendship's  bands ! 

Thus,  as  I  knew  thee  well  and  long, 

Thy  private  worth  be  told : 
What  thou  wert  more,  affection's  song 

Presumes  not  to  unfold : 
Thy  works  of  faith  and  zeal  of  love. 
Are  they  not  register'd  above  1 

Are  they  not  register'd  below  ? 

— If  few  their  praise  record, 
Yet,  in  the  judgment,  all  shall  know, 

Thou  didst  them  to  thy  Lord  ; 
For  'twas  thy  soul's  delight  to  cheer 
The  least  of  all  his  brethren  here. 

Though  less  than  even  the  least  of  these, 

Thou  didst  thyself  esteem, 
Thou  wert  a  flower-awakening  breeze, 

A  meadow-watering  stream  : 
The  breeze  unseen  its  odours  shed, 
The  stream  unheard  its  bounty  spread. 

What  art  thou  now  ? — Methinks  for  thee 
Heaven  brightens  round  its  king; 

New  beams  of  the  Divinity, 
New-landing  spirits  bring, 

As  God  on  each  his  image  seals, 

And  ray  by  ray  himself  reveals. 

While  ray  by  ray  those  thronging  lines 

To  one  great  centre  tend, 
Fulness  of  grace  and  glory  shines 

In  Christ,  their  source  and  end, 
To  show,  where  all  perfections  meet, 
The  orb  of  Deity  complete. 


THE    LATE    JOSEPH    BUTTERWORTH,    ESQ.  175 


PART    III. 

So  rest  in  peace,  thou  blessed  soul ! 

Where  sin  and  sorrow  end ; 
So  may  /  follow  to  the  goal, 

— Not  thee,  not  thee,  my  friend  ! 
But  Him,  whom  thou,  through  joy  and  wo, 
Thyself  didst  follow  on  to  know. 

Faint  yet  pursuing,  I  am  strong, 

Whene'er  his  steps  I  trace  ; 
Else,  slow  of  heart,  and  prone  to  wrong, 

I  yet  may  lose  the  race, 
If  on  thy  course  I  fix  mine  eye, 
And  Him  in  thee  not  glorify. 

The  wild,  the  mountain-top,  the  sea, 
The  throng'd  highway  he  trode, 

The  path  to  quiet  Bethany, 
And  Calvary's  dolorous  road  : 

Where  He  then  leads  me  must  be  right ; 

— I  walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight. 


"OCCUPY  TILL  I  COME." 

ON    THE   DEATH    OF 

THE  LATE  JOSEPH  BUTTERWORTH,  ESa. 

AN    EXEMPLARY    CHRISTIAN,    PATRIOT,    AND     PHILANTHROPIST. 

"  He  was  a  burning  and  a  shining  light :" 
— And  is  he  now  eclipsed  in  hopeless  night  1 
No  ;  faith  beholds  him  near  the  sapphire  throne  ; 
Shining  more  bright  than  e'er  on  earth  he  shone  ; 
While,  where  created  splendour  all  looks  dim, 
Heaven's  host  are  glorifying  God  in  him. 


176  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


If  faith's  enraptured  vision  now  be  true, 
And  things  invisible  stand  forth  to  view, 
Though  eye  to  eye  th'  imbodied  soul  can  see, 
Self-lost  amidst  unclouded  Deity, 
He  chooses,  rather  than  a  seraph's  seat, 
The  lowest  place  at  his  Redeemer's  feet ; 
And,  with  th'  eternal  weight  of  glory  prest, 
Turns  even  in  paradise  to  Christ  for  rest. 

Come  we  who  once  beheld  his  noontide  blaze, 
And  hid  before  him  our  diminish'd  rays  ; 
Since  his  translation  to  a  higher  sphere, 
We  may,  we  must  by  our  own  light  appear ; 
When  sun  and  moon  their  greater  beams  resign, 
The  stars  come  out ;  they  cannot  choose  but  shine  ; 
With  force  like  his  all  eyes  we  cannot  strike, 
We  may  not  equal  him,  but  may  be  like : 
Nor  let  the  meanest  think  his  lamp  too  dim, 
In  a  dark  world  the  Lord  hath  need  of  him  ; 
By  feeble  instruments  in  providence, 
God  is  well  pleased  his  bounties  to  dispense ; 
In  his  economy  of  grace  the  same ; 
— The  weakest  are  almighty  in  his  name. 

What  though  the  great,  the  good,  the  glorious  fail, 
He  reigns  whose  kingdom  ruleth  over  all. 
— Talk  not  of  talents  ; — what  hast  thou  to  do  ? 
Thy  duty,  be  thy  portion  Jive  or  two  ; 
Talk  not  of  talents  ; — is  thy  duty  done  ? 
Thou  hadst  sufficient,  were  they  ten  or  one. 
Lord,  what  my  talents  are  I  cannot  tell, 
Till  thou  shalt  give  me  grace  to  use  them  well : 
That  grace  impart,  the  bliss  will  then  be  mine, 
But  all  the  power  and  all  the  glory  thine. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    REV.    JAMES    HARVEY.  177 


IN  MEMORY   OF 

THE   REV.   JAMES   HARVEY, 

OF   "WESTON    FAYELL,    NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, 

Who  died  on  Christmas-day,  1758,  aged  forty-three  years. 

COMPOSED   ON   AN   OCCASIONAL   CELEBRATION   OF    HIS   VIRTUES   AND   TALENTS, 
AT   THAT   VILLAGE,   IN    1823. 

Where  is  the  house  for  all  the  living  found  ? 

— Go  ask  the  deaf,  the  dumb,  the  dead ; 

All  answer,  without  voice  or  sound, 

Each  resting  in  his  bed  ; 

Look  down  and  see, 

Beneath  thy  feet, 

A  place  for  thee  ; 

— There  all  the  living  meet. 

Whence  come  the  beauteous  progeny  of  spring ! 

— They  hear  a  still,  small  voice,  "  Awake  !" 

And  while  the  lark  is  on  the  wing, 

From  dust  and  darkness  break ; 

Flowers  of  all  hues 

Laugh  in  the  gale, 

Sparkle  with  dews, 

And  dance  o'er  hill  and  dale. 

Who  leads  through  trackless  space  the  stars  of  night  ? 

— The  Power  that  made  them  guides  them  still ; 

They  know  Him  not,  yet,  day  and  night, 

They  do  his  perfect  will : 

Unchanged  by  age, 

They  hold  on  high 

Their  pilgrimage 

Of  glory  round  the  sky. 


178  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


Stars,  flowers,  and  tombs  were  themes  for  solemn  thought 

With  him  whose  memory  we  recall ; 

Yet  more  than  eye  can  see  he  sought : 

His  spirit  look'd  through  all, 

Keenly  discern'd 

The  truths  they  teach, 

Their  lessons  learn'd, 

And  gave  their  silence  speech. 

Go,  meditate  with  him  among  the  tombs, 
And  there  the  end  of  all  things  view ; 
Visit  with  him  spring's  earliest  blooms, 
See  all  things  there  made  new  ; 
Thence  rapt  aloof 
In  ecstasy, 

Hear,  from  heaven's  roof, 
Stars  preach  eternity. 

We  call  him  blessed  whom  the  Lord  hath  blest 

And  made  a  blessing  ; — long  to  shed 

Light  on  the  living,  from  his  rest, 

And  hope  around  the  dead  : 

Oh  !  for  his  lot, 

Who  dwells  in  light, 

Where  flowers  fade  not, 

And  stars  can  find  no  night. 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    JOSEPH    BROWNE. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

THE   LATE   JOSEPH   BROWNE, 

OF  LOTHERSDAL3, 
ONE  OF  THE  PEOPLE  CALLED  QUAKERS, 

Who,  with  seven  others  of  his  religious  community,  had  suffered  a  long  confine- 
ment in  the  Castle  of  York,  and  loss  of  all  his  worldly  property,  for  conscience 
sake,  in  the  years  1795  and  1796.  He  was  a  thoughtful,  bumble-minded  man, 
and  occasionally  solaced  himself  with  "Prison  Amusements"  in  verse,  at  the 
time  when  the  Author  of  these  Stanzas,  in  a  neighbouring  room,  was  whiling 
away  the  hours  of  a  shorter  captivity  in  the  same  manner. 

"  Spirit,  leave  thine  house  of  clay ; 
Lingering  Dust,  resign  thy  breath  ! 
Spirit,  cast  thy  chains  away ; 

Dust,  be  thou  dissolved  in  death !" 

Thus  thy  Guardian  Angel  spoke, 

As  he  watch'd  thy  dying  bed ; 
As  the  bonds  of  life  he  broke ; 

And  the  ransom'd  captive  fled. 

"  Prisoner,  long  detain'd  below  ; 

Prisoner,  now  with  freedom  blest ; 
Welcome  from  a  world  of  wo, 
Welcome  to  a  land  of  rest !" 

Thus  thy  Guardian  Angel  sang, 

As  he  bore  thy  soul  on  high ; 
While  with  Hallelujahs  rang 

All  the  region  of  the  sky. 

Ye  that  mourn  a  Father's  loss, 

Ye  that  weep  a  Friend  no  more, 
Call  to  mind  the  Christian  cross, 

Which  your  Friend,  your  Father,  bore. 

Grief,  and  penury,  and  pain 
Still  attended  on  his  way  ; 


180  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


And  Oppression's  scourge  and  chain, 
More  unmerciful  than  they. 

Yet  while  travelling  in  distress 
('Twas  the  eldest  curse  of  sin) 

Through  the  world's  waste  wilderness, 
He  had  paradise  within. 

And  along  that  vale  of  tears, 

Which  his  humble  footsteps  trod, 

Still  a  shining  path  appears, 

Where  the  Mourner  walk'd  with  GOD. 

Till  his  Master,  from  above, 

When  the  promised  hour  was  come, 

Sent  the  chariot  of  his  love 

To  convey  the  Wanderer  home. 

Saw  ye  not  the  wheels  of  fire, 

And  the  steeds  that  cleft  the  wind  ? 

Saw  ye  not  his  soul  aspire, 

When  his  mantle  dropp'd  behind  ? 

Ye  who  caught  it  as  it  fell, 

Bind  that  mantle  round  your  breast ; 
So  in  you  his  meekness  dwell, 

So  on  you  his  spirit  rest ! 

Yet  rejoicing  in  his  lot, 

Still  shall  Memory  love  to  weep 
O'er  the  venerable  spot 

Where  his  dear  cold  relics  sleep. 

Grave  !  the  guardian  of  his  dust, 
Grave  !  the  treasury  of  the  skies, 

Every  atom  of  thy  trust 
Rests  in  hope  again  to  rise. 

Hark  !  the  judgment-trumpet  calls — 
"  Soul,  rebuild  thine  house  of  clay  : 

Immortality  thy  walls, 
And  Eternity  thy  day  !" 


IN    MEMORY    OF    REV.    THOMAS    SPENCER.  181 


TO   THE    MEMORY   OF 

THE  REV.   THOMAS   SPENCER, 

OP   LIVERPOOL, 

Who  was  drowned  while  "bathing  in  the  tide,  on  the  5th  of  August, 
1811,  in  his  21st  year. 

"Thy  way  is  in  the  sea,  and  thy  path  in  the  great  waters;  and  thy  footsteps 
are  not  known."— Psalm  Ixxvii.  19. 

I  will  not  sing  a  mortal's  praise  : 
To  Thee  I  consecrate  my  lays, 

To  whom  my  powers  belong  ! 
These  gifts  upon  thine  altar  strown, 

0  God  !  accept — accept  thine  own  ; 
My  gifts  are  Thine, — be  Thine  alone 

The  glory  of  my  song. 

In  earth  and  ocean,  sky  and  air, 
All  that  is  excellent  and  fair, 

Seen,  felt,  or  understood, 
From  one  eternal  cause  descends, 
To  one  eternal  centre  tends, 
With  God  begins,  continues,  ends, 

The  source  and  stream  of  good. 

1  worship  not  the  Sun  at  noon, 

The  wandering  Stars,  the  changing  Moon, 

The  Wind,  the  Flood,  the  Flame ; 
I  will  not  bow  the  votive  knee 
To  Wisdom,  Virtue,  Liberty  ; 
"There  is  no  God  but  God"  for  me; 

— Jehovah  is  his  name. 

Him  through  all  nature  I  explore, 
Him  in  his  creatures  I  adore, 

3L.  ii.  16 


1S2  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


Around,  beneath,  above ; 
But  clearest  in  the  human  mind, 
His  bright  resemblance  when  I  find, 
Grandeur  with  purity  combined, 

I  most  admire  and  love. 

Oh !   there  was  One, — on  earth  a  while 
He  dwelt ; — but  transient  as  a  smile 

That  turns  into  a  tear, 
His  beauteous  image  pass'd  us  by  ; 
He  came,  like  lightning  from  the  sky, 
He  seem'd  as  dazzling  to  the  eye, 

As  prompt  to  disappear. 

Mild  in  his  undissembling  mien, 
Were  genius,  candour,  meekness  seen  ; 

— The  lips,  that  loved  the  truth  ; 
The  single  eye,  whose  glance  sublime 
Look'd  to  eternity  through  time  ; 
The  soul,  whose  hopes  were  wont  to  climb 

Above  the  joys  of  youth. 

Of  old,  before  the  lamp  grew  dark, 
Reposing  near  the  curtain'd  ark, 

The  child  of  Hannah's  prayer 
Heard,  through  the  temple's  silent  round, 
A  living  voice,  nor  knew  the  sound, 
— That  thrice  alarm'd  him,  ere  he  found 

The  Lord,  who  chose  him  there.* 

Thus  early  call'd,  and  strongly  moved, 
A  prophet  from  a  child,  approved, 

Spencer  his  course  began ; 
From  strength  to  strength,  from  grace  to  grace, 
Swiftest  and  foremost  in  the  race, 
He  carried  victory  in  his  face  ; 

He  triumph'd  as  he  ran. 


*  1  Sam.  iii. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    REV.    THOMAS    SPENCER.  183 

How  short  his  day  ! — the  glorious  prize, 
To  our  slow  hearts  and  failing  eyes, 

Appear'd  too  quickly  won  : 
— The  warrior  rush'd  into  the  field, 
With  arm  invincible  to  wield 
The  Sprit's  sword,  the  Spirit's  shield, 

When,  lo  !  the  fight  was  done. 

The  loveliest  star  of  evening's  train 
Sets  early  in  the  western  main, 

And  leaves  the  world  in  night ; 
The  brightest  star  of  morning's  host, 
Scarce  risen,  in  brighter  beams  is  lost ; 
Thus  sunk  his  form  on  ocean's  coast, 

Thus  sprang  his  soul  to  light. 

Who  shall  forbid  the  eye  to  weep, 
That  saw  him,  from  the  ravening  deep, 

Pluck'd  like  the  lion's  prey  ? 
For  ever  bow'd  his  honour'd  head, 
The  spirit  in  a  moment  fled, 
The  heart  of  friendship  cold  and  dead, 

The  limbs  a  wreath  of  clay  ! 

Revolving  his  mysterious  lot, 

I  mourn  him,  but  I  praise  him  not ; 

Glory  to  God  be  given, 
Who  sent  him,  like  the  radiant  bow, 
His  covenant  of  peace  to  show ; 
Athwart  the  breaking  storm  to  glow, 

Then  vanish  into  heaven. 

O  Church  !  to  whom  that  youth  was  dear, 
The  Angel  of  thy  mercies  here, 

Behold  the  path  he  trod, 
"A  milky  way"  through  midnight  skies  ! 
— Behold  the  grave  in  which  he  lies ; 
Even  from  this  dust  thy  prophet  cries, 

"Prepare  to  meet  thy  GOD:' 


184  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER. 

OCCASIONED   BY  THE  SUDDEN  DEATH   OF 

THE  REV.   THOMAS  TAYLOR, 

After  having  declared,  in  his  last  Sermon,  on  a  preceding  evening,  that  he  hoped 
to  die  as  an  old  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ,  with  his  sword  in  his  hand. 

"  Servant  of  God  !  well  done, 

Rest  from  thy  loved  employ  ; 
The  battle  fought,  the  victory  won, 

Enter  thy  Master's  joy." 
— The  voice  at  midnight  came  ; 

He  started  up  to  hear : 
A  mortal  arrow  pierced  his  frame, 

He  fell, — but  felt  no  fear. 

Tranquil  amidst  alarms, 

It  found  him  in  the  field, 
A  veteran  slumbering  on  his  arms, 

Beneath  his  red-cross  shield  : 
His  sword  was  in  his  hand, 

Still  warm  with  recent  fight, 
Ready  that  moment  at  command, 

Through  rock  and  steel  to  smite. 

It  was  a  two-edged  blade 

Of  heavenly  temper  keen  ; 
And  double  were  the  wounds  it  made, 

Where'er  it  smote  between : 
'Twas  death  to  sin  ; — 'twas  life 

To  all  that  mourn' d  for  sin ; 
It  kindled  and  it  silenced  strife, 

Made  war  and  peace  within. 

Oft  with  its  fiery  force, 

His  arm  had  quell' d  the  foe, 
And  laid,  resistless  in  his  course, 

The  alien-armies  low : 


A    RECOLLECTION    OF    MARY    F.  185 

Bent  on  such  glorious  toils, 

The  world  to  him  was  loss  ; 
Yet  all  his  trophies,  all  his  spoils, 

He  hung  upon  the  cross. 

At  midnight  came  the  cry, 

"  To  meet  thy  God  prepare  !" 
He  woke,  and  caught  his  Captain's  eye ; 

Then  strong  in  faith  and  prayer, 
His  spirit,  with  a  bound, 

Bursts  its  encumbering  clay  : 
His  tent,  at  sunrise,  on  the  ground, 

A  darken'd  ruin  lay. 

The  pains  of  death  are  past, 

Labour  and  sorrow  cease, 
And  life's  long  warfare  closed  at  last, 

His  soul  is  found  in  peace. 
Soldier  of  Christ !  well  done  ; 

Praise  be  thy  new  employ  ; 
And  while  eternal  ages  run, 

Rest  in  thy  Saviour's  joy. 


A  RECOLLECTION  OF  MARY  F., 

A  YOUNG  LADY  UNEXPECTEDLY  REMOVED  FROM  A  LARGE  FAMILY  CIRCLE. 

Her  life  had  twice  been  saved,  once  from  the  flames,  and  again  from  the  water, 
by  an  affectionate  father. 

Thrice  born  for  earth  and  twice  for  heaven, 

A  lovely  maiden  once  I  knew, 
To  whom  'tis  now  in  glory  given 

To  grow,  as  here  in  shade  she  grew ; 
Brief  was  her  course,  but  starry  bright ; 
The  linnet's  song,  the  lily's  white, 
The  fountain's  freshness, — tl    se  shall  be 
Meet  emblems  of  that  maid  to  me. 


186  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


A  weeping  babe  to  light  she  came, 

And  changed  for  smiles  a  mother's  throes \ 
In  childhood  from  devouring  flame, 
Rescued,  to  second  life  she  rose ; 
A  father's  arm  had  pluck'd  her  thence  ; 
That  arm  again  was  her  defence, 
When  buried  in  the  strangling  wave, 
He  snatch' d  her  from  an  ocean  grave. 

Twice  born  for  heaven  as  thrice  for  earth, 

When  God's  eternal  Spirit  moved 
On  her  young  heart,  a  nobler  birth 

Than  nature  can  confer,  she  proved : 
— The  dew-drop  in  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Trembling  and  sparkling  on  the  thorn, 
Falls  to  the  ground,  escapes  the  eye, 
Yet  mounts  on  sunbeams  to  the  sky. 

Thus  in  the  dew  of  youth  she  shone, 

Thus  in  the  morn  of  beauty  fell ; 
Even  while  we  gazed,  the  form  was  gone, 

Her  life  became  invisible  ; 
Her  last  best  birth,  with  her  last  breath, 
Came  in  the  dark  disguise  of  death ; 
Grief  fill'd  her  parents'  home  of  love, 
But  joy  her  Father's  house  above. 

1833. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  E.  B. 

FORMERLY   E.    R. 

Hers  was  a  soul  of  fire  that  burn'd 

Too  soon  for  2is,  its  earthly  tent, 
But  not  too  soon  for  her  return'd 

To  Him  from  whom  it  first  was  sent : 
Grave  !  keep  the  ashes,  till,  redeem'd  from  thee, 
This  mortal  puts  on  immortality. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    E.    G.  187 

Hers  was  a  frame  so  frail,  so  fine, 

The  soul  was  seen  through  every  part, 

A  light  that  could  not  choose  but  shine 
In  eye  and  utterance,  hand  and  heart ; 

That  soul  rests  now,  till  God,  in  his  great  day, 

Remoulds  his  image  from  this  perish'd  clay. 

Body  and  soul,  eternally, 

No  more  conflicting  nor  estranged, 
One  saint  made  perfect  then  shall  be, 

From  glory  into  glory  changed  ; 
This  was  her  hope  in  life,  in  death ; — may  I 
Live  like  the  righteous,  like  the  righteous  die. 

1833. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  E.  G. 

Soft  be  the  turf  on  thy  dear  breast, 
And  heavenly  calm  thy  lone  retreat ; 

How  long'd  the  wearied  frame  for  rest ; 
That  rest  is  come,  and  oh  how  sweet ! 

There's  nothing  terrible  in  death  ; 

'Tis  but  to  cast  our  robes  away, 
And  sleep  at  night,  without  a  breath 

To  break  repose  till  dawn  of  day. 

'Tis  not  a  night  without  a  morn, 

Though  glooms  impregnable  surround  ; 

Nor  lies  the  buried  corse  forlorn, 
A  hopeless  prisoner  in  the  ground. 

The  darkest  clouds  give  lightnings  birth, 
The  pearl  is  form'd  in  ocean's  bed ; 

The  gem,  unperishing  in  earth, 

Springs  from  its  grave  as  from  the  dead. 

So  shall  the  relics  of  the  just ; 

In  weakness  sown,  but  raised  in  power, 


TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


The  precious  seed  shall  leave  the  dust, 
A  glorious  and  immortal  flower. 

But  art  thou  dead  ? — must  we  deplore 
Joys  gone  for  ever  from  our  lot  ? 

And  shall  we  see  thy  face  no  more, 
Where  all  reminds  us — thou  art  not  ? 

No, — live  while  those  who  love  thee  live, 
The  sainted  sister  of  our  heart ; 

And  thought  to  thee  a  form  shall  give 
Of  all  thou  wast,  and  all  thou  art : — 

Of  all  thou  wast,  when  from  thine  eyes 
The  latest  beams  of  kindness  shone  ; 

Of  all  thou  art,  when  faith  descries 
Thy  spirit  bow'd  before  the  throne. 


1821. 


M.  S. 
TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 


"a  female  whom  sickness  had  reconciled  to  the  notes  of 

SORROW," 

Who  corresponded  with  the  Author  under  this  signature,  on  the  first  publication 
of  his  Poems,  in  1806,  but  died  soon  after;  when  her  real  name  and  merits 
were  disclosed  to  him  by  one  of  her  surviving  friends. 

My  Song  of  Sorrow  reach' d  her  ear ; 
She  raised  her  languid  head  to  hear, 
And,  smiling  in  the  arms  of  Death, 
Consoled  me  with  her  latest  breath. 
What  is  the  Poet's  highest  aim, 
His  richest  heritage  of  fame  ? 
— To  track  the  warrior's  fiery  road, 
With  havoc,  spoil,  destruction  strew'd, 
While  nations  bleed  along  the  plains, 
Dragg'd  at  his  chariot-wheels  in  chains  ? 


M.    S.  189 

— With  fawning  hand  to  woo  the  lyre, 
Profanely  steal  celestial  fire, 
And  bid  an  idol's  altar  blaze 
With  incense  of  unhallow'd  praise  ? 
— With  syren  strains,  Circean  art, 
To  win  the  ear,  beguile  the  heart, 
Wake  the  wild  passions  into  rage, 
And  please  and  prostitute  the  age  ? 

NO  ! — to  the  generous  bard  belong 
Diviner  themes  and  purer  song: 
— To  hail  Religion  from  above, 
Descending  in  the  form  of  Love, 
And  pointing  through  a  world  of  strife 
The  narrow  way  that  leads  to  life : 
—-To  pour  the  balm  of  heavenly  rest 
Through  Sorrow's  agonizing  breast ; 
With  Pity's  tender  arms  embrace 
The  orphans  of  a  kindred  race  ; 
And  in  one  zone  of  concord  bind 
The  lawless  spoilers  of  mankind  : 
— To  sing  in  numbers  boldly  free 
The  wars  and  woes  of  liberty ; 
The  glory  of  her  triumphs  tell, 
Her  noble  suffering  when  she  fell,* 
Girt  with  the  phalanx  of  the  brave, 
Or  widow'd  on  the  patriot's  grave, 
Which  tyrants  tremble  to  pass  by, 
Even  on  the  car  of  Victory. 

These  are  the  Bard's  sublimest  views, 
The  angel-visions  of  the  Muse, 
That  o'er  his  morning  slumbers  shine  ; 
These  are  his  themes, — and  these  were  mine. 
But  pale  Despondency,  that  stole 
The  light  of  gladness  from  my  soul, 
While  youth  and  folly  blindfold  ran 
The  giddy  circle  up  to  .Man, 

*  "Piu  val  d'ogni  vittoria  an  bel  loflrire." 

Gaetana  Passeiuni. 


190  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


Breathed  a  dark  spirit  through  my  lyre, 
Dimm'd  the  noon-radiance  of  my  fire, 
And  cast  a  mournful  evening  hue 
O'er  every  scene  my  fancy  drew. 
Then  though  the  proud  despised  my  strain, 
It  flow'd  not  from  my  heart  in  vain ; 
The  lay  of  freedom,  fervour,  truth, 
Was  dear  to  undissembling  youth, 
From  manly  breasts  drew  generous  sighs, 
And  Virtue's  tears  from  Beauty's  eyes. 

My  Song  of  Sorrow  reach'd  HER  ear ; 
She  raised  her  languid  head  to  hear, 
And,  smiling  in  the  arms  of  Death, 
She  bless'd  me  with  her  latest  breath. 

A  secret  hand  to  me  convey'd 
The  thoughts  of  that  inspiring  Maid  ; 
They  came  like  voices  on  the  wind, 
Heard  in  the  stillness  of  the  mind, 
When  round  the  Poet's  twilight  walk 
Aerial  beings  seem  to  talk : 
Not  the  twin-stars  of  Leda  shine 
With  vernal  influence  more  benign, 
Nor  sweeter,  in  the  sylvan  vale, 
Sings  the  lone-warbling  nightingale, 
Than  through  my  shades  her  lustre  broke, 
Than  to  my  griefs  her  spirit  spoke. 

My  fancy  form'd  her  young  and  fair, 
Pure  as  her  sister-lilies  were, 
Adorn'd  with  meekest  maiden  grace, 
With  every  charm  of  soul  and  face, 
That  Virtue's  awful  eye  approves, 
And  fond  Affection  dearly  loves  ; 
Heaven  in  her  open  aspect  seen, 
Her  Maker's  image  in  her  mien. 

Such  was  the  picture  fancy  drew, 
In  lineaments  divinely  true  ; 
The  Muse,  by  her  mysterious  art, 
Had  shown  her  likeness  to  my  he  art, 


M.     S.  191 

And  every  faithful  feature  brought 

O'er  the  clear  mirror  of  my  thought. 

But  she  was  waning  to  the  tomb ; 

The  worm  of  death  was  in  her  bloom  ; 

— Yet  as  the  mortal  frame  declined, 

Strong  through  the  ruins  rose  the  mind ; 

As  the  dim  moon,  when  night  ascends, 

Slow  in  the  east  the  darkness  rends, 

Through  melting  clouds,  by  gradual  gleams, 

Pours  the  mild  splendour  of  her  beams, 

Then  bursts  in  triumph  o'er  the  pole, 

Free  as  a  disembodied  soul ! 

Thus,  while  the  veil  of  flesh  decay'd, 

Her  beauties  brighten'd  through  the  shade  ; 

Charms  which  her  lowly  heart  conceal'd, 

In  nature's  weakness  were  revealed 

And  still  the  unrobing  spirit  cast 
Diviner  glories  to  the  last, 
Dissolved  its  bonds,  and  clear'd  its  flight, 
Emerging  into  perfect  light. 

Yet  shall  the  friends  who  loved  her  weep, 
Though  shrined  in  peace  the  sufferer  sleep, 
Though  rapt  to  heaven  the  saint  aspire, 
With  seraph  guards  on  wings  of  fire ; 
Yet  shall  they  weep  ; — for  oft  and  well 
Remembrance  shall  her  story  tell, 
Affection  of  her  virtues  speak, 
With  beaming  eye  and  burning  cheek, 
Each  action,  word,  and  look  recall, 
The  last,  the  loveliest  of  all, 
When  on  the  lap  of  death  she  lay, 
Serenely  smiled  her  soul  away, 
And  left  surviving  Friendship's  breast 
Warm  with  the  sunset  of  her  rest. 

O  thou,  who  wert  on  earth  unknown, 
Companion  of  my  thought  alone  ! 
Unchanged  in  heaven  to  me  thou  art, 
Still  hold  communion  witli  my  heart ; 


192  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


Cheer  thou  my  hopes,  exalt  my  views, 
Be  the  good  angel  of  my  Muse ; 
— And  if  to  thine  approving  ear 
My  plaintive  numbers  once  were  dear ; 
If,  falling  round  thy  dying  hours, 
Like  evening  dews  on  closing  flowers, 
They  soothed  thy  pains,  and  through  thy  soul 
With  melancholy  sweetness  stole, 
HEAR  ME :— When  slumber  from  mine  eyes, 
That  roll  in  irksome  darkness,  flies  ; 
When  the  lorn  spectre  of  unrest 
At  conscious  midnight  haunts  my  breast ; 
When  former  joys  and  present  woes, 
And  future  fears,  are  all  my  foes ; 
Spirit  of  my  departed  friend, 
Calm  through  the  troubled  gloom  descend, 
With  strains  of  triumph  on  thy  tongue, 
Such  as  to  dying  saints  are  sung ; 
Such  as  in  Paradise  the  ear 
Of  God  himself  delights  to  hear ; 
— Come,  all  unseen  ;  be  only  known 
By  Zion's  harp  of  higher  tone, 
Warbling  to  thy  mysterious  voice ; 
Bid  my  desponding  powers  rejoice  : 
And  I  will  listen  to  thy  lay, 
Till  night  and  sorrow  flee  away, 
Till  gladness  o'er  my  bosom  rise, 
And  morning  kindle  round  the  skies. 
If  thus  to  me,  sweet  saint,  be  given 
To  learn  from  thee  the  hymns  of  heaven, 
Thine  inspiration  will  impart 
Seraphic  ardours  to  my  heart ; 
My  voice  thy  music  shall  prolong, 
And  echo  thy  entrancing  song ; 
My  lyre  with  sympathy  divine 
Shall  answer  every  chord  of  thine, 
Till  their  consenting  tones  give  birth 
To  harmonies  unknown  on  earth. 


! 
ON    THE    ROYAL    INFANT.  193    | 


Then  shall  my  thoughts,  in  living  fire 
Sent  down  from  heaven,  to  heaven  aspire, 
My  verse  through  lofty  measures  rise, 
A  scale  of  glory,  to  the  skies, 
Resembling,  on  each  hallow'd  theme, 
The  ladder  of  the  Patriarch's  dream, 
O'er  which  descending  angels  shone, 
On  earthly  missions  from  the  throne, 
Returning  by  the  steps  they  trod, 
Up  to  the  Paradise  of  God. 


ON  THE  ROYAL  INFANT, 

STILL-BORN;  NOV.  5,  1917. 

A  throne  on  earth  awaited  thee  ; 

A  nation  long'd  to  see  thy  face, 
Heir  to  a  glorious  ancestry, 

And  father  of  a  mightier  race. 

Vain  hope  !  that  throne  thou  must  not  fill ; 

Thee  may  that  nation  ne'er  behold  ; 
Thine  ancient  house  is  heirless  still, 

Thy  line  shall  never  be  unroll'd. 

Yet  while  we  mourn  thy  flight  from  earth, 

Thine  was  a  destiny  sublime  ; 
Caught  up  to  Paradise  in  birth, 

Pluck'd  by  Eternity  from  Time. 

The  Mother  knew  her  offspring  dead  : 
Oh  !  was  it  grief,  or  was  it  love 

That  broke  her  heart  ? — The  spirit  fled 
To  seek  her  nameless  child  above. 

Led  by  his  natal  star,  she  trod 

The  path  to  heaven : — the  meeting  there, 
And  how  they  stood  before  their  God, 

The  day  of  judgment  shall  declare. 


VOL.  II.  17 


191  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HER   INFANT    DAUGHTER. 

I  loved  thee,  Daughter  of  my  heart ; 

My  Child,  I  loved  thee  dearly ; 
And  though  we  only  met  to  part, 

— How  sweetly  !  how  severely  ! — 
Nor  life  nor  death  can  sever 
My  soul  from  thine  for  ever. 

Thy  days,  my  little  one,  were  few, — 

An  Angel's  morning  visit, 
That  came  and  vanish'd  with  the  dew : 

'Twas  here,  'tis  gone,  where  is  it  ? 
Yet  didst  thou  leave  behind  thee 
A  clew  for  love  to  find  thee. 

The  eye,  the  lip,  the  cheek,  the  brow, 
The  hands  stretch'd  forth  in  gladness, 

All  life,  joy,  rapture,  beauty  now, 
Then  dash'd  with  infant  sadness, 

Till,  brightening  by  transition, 

Return'd  the  fairy  vision  : — 

Where  are  they  now  ? — those  smiles,  those  tears, 

Thy  Mother's  darling  treasure  ? 
She  sees  them  still,  and  still  she  hears 

Thy  tones  of  pain  or  pleasure, 
To  her  quick  pulse  revealing 
Unutterable  feeling. 

Hush'd  in  a  moment  on  her  breast, 

Life,  at  the  well-spring  drinking, 
Then  cradled  on  her  lap  to  rest, 

In  rosy  slumber  sinking, 
Thy  dreams — no  thought  can  guess  them ; 
And  mine — no  tongue  express  them. 


THE    WIDOW    AND    THE    FATHERLESS.  195 

For  then  this  waking  eye  could  see, 

In  many  a  vain  vagary, 
The  things  that  never  were  to  be, 

Imaginations  airy  ; 
Fond  hopes  that  mothers  cherish, 
Like  still-born  babes  to  perish. 

Mine  perish'd  on  thy  early  bier ; 

No — changed  to  forms  more  glorious, 
They  flourish  in  a  higher  sphere, 

O'er  time  and  death  victorious ; 
Yet  would  these  arms  have  chain'd  thee, 
And  long  from  heaven  detain'd  thee. 

Sarah  !  my  last,  my  youngest  love, 

The  crown  of  every  other  ! 
Though  thou  art  born  in  heaven  above, 

I  am  thine  only  Mother, 
Nor  will  affection  let  me 
Believe  thou  canst  forget  me. 

Then, — thou  in  heaven  and  I  on  earth, — 

May  this  one  hope  delight  us, 
That  thou  wilt  hail  my  second  birth 

When  death  shall  re-unite  us, 
Where  worlds  no  more  can  sever 
Parent  and  child  for  ever. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  THE  FATHERLESS. 

Well,  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left ; 

But,  oh  !  how  cold  and  dark  to  me 
This  world,  of  every  charm  bereft, 

Where  all  was  beautiful  with  thee  ! 

Though  I  have  seen  thy  form  depart 
For  ever  from  my  widow'd  eye,      ' 

I  hold  thee  in  my  inmost  heart ; 

There,  there  at  least,  thou  canst  not  die. 


196  TRIBUTARY    POEMS. 


Farewell  on  earth  ;  Heaven  claim'd  its  own ; 

Yet,  when  from  me  thy  presence  went, 
I  was  exchanged  for  God  alone  : 

Let  dust  and  ashes  learn  content. 

Ha  !  those  small  voices  silver-sweet 
Fresh  from  the  fields  my  babes  appear ; 

They  fill  my  arms,  they  clasp  my  feet ; 
— "  Oh  !  could  your  father  see  us  here  !" 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  LYRE. 

"  Ah  !  who  would  love  the  lyre  !" 

VV.  B.  Stevens. 

Where  the  roving  rill  meander'd 

Down  the  green  retiring  vale, 
Poor,  forlorn  Alcjeus  wander'd, 

Pale  with  thought,  serenely  pale  : 
Timeless  sorrow  o'er  his  face 
Breathed  a  melancholy  grace, 
And  fix'd  on  every  feature  there 
The  mournful  resignation  of  despair. 

O'er  his  arm,  his  lyre  neglected, 

Once  his  dear  companion,  hung, 
And,  in  spirit  deep  dejected, 

Thus  the  pensive  poet  sung; 
While  at  midnight's  solemn  noon, 
Sweetly  shone  the  cloudless  moon, 
And  all  the  stars,  around  his  head, 
Benignly  bright,  their  mildest  influence  stied. 

"  Lyre  !  O  Lyre  !  my  chosen  treasure, 
Solace  of  my  bleeding  heart ; 
Lyre!  O  Lyre!  my  only  pleasure 

We  must  now  for  ever  part ; 
For  in  vain  thy  poet  sings, 
W    lea  in  vain  thine  heavenly  strings; 
The  .Muse's  wretched  sons  are  born 
To  cold  neglect,  and  penury,  and  scorn. 


197 


198  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"That  which  Alexander  sigh'd  for, 
That  which  Cesar's  soul  possess'd, 
That  which  heroes,  kings,  have  died  for— 

Glory  ! — animates  my  breast : 
Hark  !  the  charging  trumpets'  throats 
Pour  their  death-defying  notes  ; 
*  To  arms  !'  they  call :  to  arms  I  fly, 
Like  Wolfe  to  conquer,  and  like  Wolfe  to  die. 

"  Soft ! — the  blood  of  murder'd  legions 
Summons  vengeance  from  the  skies  ; 
Flaming  towns  and  ravaged  regions, 
All  in  awful  judgment  rise. — 

0  then,  innocently  brave, 

1  will  wrestle  with  the  wave  ; 

Lo  !  Commerce  spreads  the  daring  sail, 
And  yokes  her  naval  chariots  to  the  gale. 

"  Blow,  ye  breezes  ! — gently  blowing, 
Waft  me  to  that  happy  shore, 
Where,  from  fountains  ever  flowing,  ' 
Indian  realms  their  treasures  pour; 
Thence  returning,  poor  in  health, 
Rich  in  honesty  and  wealth, 
O'er  thee,  my  dear  paternal  soil, 
I'll  strew  the  golden  harvest  of  my  toil. 

"  Then  shall  Misery's  sons  and  daughters 
In  their  lowly  dwellings  sing : 
Bounteous  as  the  Nile's  dark  waters, 

Undiscover'd  as  their  spring, 
I  will  scatter  o'er  the  land 
Blessings  with  a  secret  hand  ; 
For  such  angelic  tasks  design'd, 
I  give  the  lyre  and  sorrow  to  the  wind." 

On  an  oak,  whose  branches  hoary 
Sigh'd  to  every  passing  breeze, 

Sigh'd  and  told  the  simple  story 
Of  the  patriarch  of  trees ; 


THE    LYRE.  109 


High  in  air  his  harp  he  hung, 
Now  no  more  to  rapture  strung ; 
Then  warm  in  hope,  no  longer  pale, 
He  blush'd  adieu,  and  rambled  down  the  dale. 

Lightly  touch'd  by  fairy  fingers, 

Hark  ! — the  Lyre  enchants  the  wind  ; 
Fond  Alceus  listens,  lingers 

— Lingering,  listening,  looks  behind. 
Now  the  music  mounts  on  high, 
Sweetly  swelling  through  the  sky; 
To  every  tone,  with  tender  heat, 
His  heart-strings  vibrate,  and  his  pulses  beat. 

Now  the  strains  to  silence  stealing, 

Soft  in  ecstasies  expire  ; 
Oh  !  with  what  romantic  feeling 
Poor  AlcjEus  grasps  the  Lyre. 
Lo !  his  furious  hand  he  flings 
In  a  tempest  o'er  the  strings  ; 
He  strikes  the  chords  so  quick,  so  loud, 
'Tis  Jove  that  scatters  lightning  from  a  cloud. 

"  Lyre  !  O  Lyre  !  my  chosen  treasure, 
Solace  of  my  bleeding  heart ; 
Lyre  !  O  Lyre  !  my  only  pleasure, 

We  will  never,  never  part : 
Glory,  Commerce,  now  in  vain 
Tempt  me  to  the  field,  the  main  ; 
The  Muse's  sons  are  blest,  though  born 
To  cold  neglect,  and  penury,  and  scorn. 

"  What,  though  all  the  world  neglect  me, 
Shall  my  haughty  soul  repine  ? 
And  shall  poverty  deject  me, 

While  this  hallow'd  Lyre  is  mine? 
Heaven — that  o'er  my  helpless  head 
Many  a  wrathful  vial  shed, — 
Heaven  gave  this  Lyre, — and  thus  decreed, 
Be  thou  a  bruised,  but  not  a  broken  reed." 

1803. 


200  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


REMONSTRANCE  TO  WINTER. 

Ah  !  why,  unfeeeling  Winter,  why 

Still  flags  thy  torpid  wing  ? 
Fly,  melancholy  Season,  fly, 

And  yield  the  year  to  Spring. 

Spring, — the  young  harbinger  of  love, 

An  exile  in  disgrace, — 
Flits  o'er  the  scene,  like  Noah's  dove 

Nor  finds  a  resting  place. 

When  on  the  mountain's  azure  peak 

Alights  her  fairy  form, 
Cold  blow  the  winds, — and  dark  and  bleak 

Around  her  rolls  the  storm. 

If  to  the  valley  she  repair 

For  shelter  and  defence, 
Thy  wrath  pursues  the  mourner  there, 

And  drives  her,  weeping,  thence. 

She  seeks  the  brook,  the  faithless  brook, 

Of  her  unmindful  grown, 
Feels  the  chill  magic  of  thy  look, 

And  lingers  into  stone. 

She  wooes  her  embryo-flowers  in  vain 
To  rear  their  infant  heads  ; — 

Deaf  to  her  voice,  her  flowers  remain 
Enchanted  in  their  beds. 

In  vain  she  bids  the  trees  expand 
Their  green  luxuriant  charms  ; — 

Bare  in  the  wilderness  they  stand, 
And  stretch  their  withering  arms. 

Her  favourite  birds,  in  feeble  notes, 

Lament  thy  long  delay  ; 
And  strain  their  little  stammering  throats 

To  charm  thy  blasts  away. 


201 


Ah  !  Winter,  calm  thy  cruel  rage, 
Release  the  struggling  year  ; 

Thy  power  is  past,  decrepit  Sage, 
Arise  and  disappear. 

The  stars  that  graced  thy  splendid  night 

Are  lost  in  warmer  rays  ; 
The  Sun,  rejoicing  in  his  might, 

Unrolls  celestial  days. 

Then  why,  usurping  Winter,  why 

Still  flags  thy  frozen  wing  ? 
Fly,  unrelenting  tyrant,  fly — 

And  yield  the  year  to  Spring. 


ROUND  LOVE'S  ELYSIAN  BOWERS. 

Round  Love's  Elysian  bowers 

The  fairest  prospects  rise  ; 
There  bloom  the  sweetest  flowers, 
There  shine  the  purest  skies  : 
And  joy  and  rapture  gild  awhile 
The  cloudless  heaven  of  Beauty's  smile. 

Round  Love's  deserted  bowers 

Tremendous  rocks  arise ; 
Cold  mildews  blight  the  flowers, 
Tornadoes  rend  the  skies  : 
And  Pleasure's  waning  moon  goes  down 
Amid  the  night  of  Beauty's  frown. 

Then  Youth,  thou  fond  believer ! 

The  wily  Syren  shun  ; 
Who  trusts  the  dear  deceiver 
Will  surely  be  undone  : 
When  Beauty  triumphs,  ah  !  beware  ; — 
Her  smile  is  hope — her  frown  despair. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   UNDER 

A   DRAWING  OF   YARDLEY   OAK, 

CELEBRATED   BY   COWPER. 
-See  Hayleifs  Life  and  Letters  of  W.  Cowper,  Esq. 

This  sole  survivor  of  a  race 

Of  giant  oaks,  where  once  the  wood 
Rang  with  the  battle  or  the  chase, 

In  stern  and  lonely  grandeur  stood. 

From  age  to  age  it  slowly  spread 
Its  gradual  boughs  to  sun  and  wind  ; 

From  age  to  age  its  noble  head 
As  slowly  wither' d  and  declined. 

A  thousand  years  are  like  a  day, 

When  fled ; — no  longer  known  than  seen ; 
This  tree  was  doom'd  to  pass  away, 

And  be  as  if  it  ne'er  had  been ; — 

But  mournful  Cowper,  wandering  nigh, 
For  rest  beneath  its  shadow  came, 

When,  lo  !  the  voice  of  days  gone  by 
Ascended  from  its  hollow  frame. 

O  that  the  Poet  had  reveal'd 

The  words  of  those  prophetic  strains, 
Ere  death  the  eternal  mystery  seal'd 

Yet  in  his  song  the  Oak  remains. 

And  fresh  in  undecaying  prime, 

There  may  it  live,  beyond  the  power 

Of  storm  and  earthquake,  Man  and  Time, 
Till  Nature's  conflagration-hour. 


203 


WRITTEN  FOR  A  SOCIETY, 

WHOSE    MOTTO    WAS    "  FRIENDSHIP,    LOVE,    AND    TRUTH." 

When  "Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth"  abound 

Among  a  band  of  Brothers, 
The  cup  of  joy  goes  gaily  round, 

Each  shares  the  bliss  of  others  : 
Sweet  roses  grace  the  thorny  way 

Along  this  vale  of  sorrow ; 
The  flowers  that  shed  their  leaves  to-day 

Shall  bloom  again  to-morrow  : 
How  grand  in  age,  how  fair  in  youth, 
Are  holy  "Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth  !" 

On  halcyon  wings  our  moments  pass, 

Life's  cruel  cares  beguiling  ; 
Old  Time  lays  down  his  scythe  and  glass, 

In  gay  good-humour  smiling : 
With  ermine  beard  and  forelock  gray, 

His  reverend  front  adorning, 
He  looks  like  Winter  turn'd  to  May, 
Night  soften'd  into  morning. 
How  grand  in  age,  how  fair  in  youth, 
Are  holy  "  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth  !" 

From  these  delightful  fountains  flow 

Ambrosial  rills  of  pleasure  : 
Can  man  desire,  can  Heaven  bestow 

A  more  resplendent  treasure  ? 
Adorn'd  with  gems  so  richly  bright, 

We'll  form  a  Constellation, 
Where  every  Star,  with  modest  light, 

Shall  gild  his  proper  station. 
How  grand  in  age,  how  fair  in  youth, 
Are  holy  "  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth  !" 

1799. 


204  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


RELIGION. 

AN    OCCASIONAL    HYMN. 

Through  shades  and  solitudes  profound 
The  fainting  traveller  winds  his  way ; 

Bewildering  meteors  glare  around, 
And  tempt  his  wandering  feet  astray. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  his  eye 
The  sudden  moon's  inspiring  light, 

When  forth  she  sallies  through  the  sky, 
The  guardian  angel  of  the  night. 

Thus  mortals,  blind  and  weak,  below 
Pursue  the  phantom  Bliss,  in  vain ; 

The  world's  a  pilgrimage  of  wo, 
And  life  a  pilgrimage  of  pain, 

Till  mild  Religion,  from  above, 
Descends,  a  sweet  engaging  form — 

The  messenger  of  heavenly  love, 
The  bow  of  promise  in  a  storm. 

Then  guilty  passions  wing  their  flight, 
Sorrow,  remorse,  affliction  cease  ; 

Religion's  yoke  is  soft  and  light, 

And  all  her  paths  are  paths  of  peace. 

Ambition,  pride,  revenge  depart, 
And  folly  flies  her  chastening  rod ; 

She  makes  the  humble  contrite  heart 
A  temple  of  the  living  God. 

Beyond  the  narrow  vale  of  time, 
Where  bright  celestial  ages  roll, 

To  scenes  eternal,  scenes  sublime, 

She  points  the  way,  and  leads  the  soul. 


THE    JOY    OF    GRIEF.  205 


1799. 


At  her  approach  the  Grave  appears 
The  Gate  of  Paradise  restored  ; 

Her  voice  the  watching-  Cherub  hears, 
And  drops  his  double-flaming  sword. 

Baptized  with  her  renewing  fire, 
May  we  the  crown  of  glory  gain ; 

Rise  when  the  Host  of  Heaven  expire, 
And  reign  with  God,  for  ever  reign  ! 


THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF. 

Sweet  the  hour  of  tribulation, 
When  the  heart  can  freely  sigh, 

And  the  tear  of  resignation 
Twinkles  in  the  mournful  eye. 

Have  you  felt  a  kind  emotion 

Tremble  through  your  troubled  breast 
Soft  as  evening  o'er  the  ocean, 

When  she  charms  the  waves  to  rest  ? 

Have  you  lost  a  friend,  or  brother  ? 

Heard  a  father's  parting  breath  ? 
Gazed  upon  a  lifeless  mother, 

Till  she  secm'd  to  wake  from  death  ? 

Have  you  felt  a  spouse  expiring 
In  your  arms  before  your  view  ? 

Watch'd  the  lovely  soul  retiring 
From  her  eyes  that  broke  on  you  ? 

Did  not  grief  then  grow  romantic, 
Raving  on  remember'd  bliss  ? 

Did  you  not,  with  fervour  frantic, 
Kiss  the  lips  that  felt  no  kiss  ? 

Yes  !  but  when  you  had  resign'd  her, 
Life  and  you  were  reconciled ; 


18 


206  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Anna  left — she  left  behind  her, 
One,  one  dear,  one  only  child. 

But  before  the  green  moss  peeping-, 
His  poor  mother's  grave  array'd, 

In  that  grave  the  infant  sleeping 
On  the  mother's  lap  was  laid. 

Horror  then,  your  heart  congealing, 
Chill'd  you  with  intense  despair : 

Can  you  call  to  mind  the  feeling  ? 
No  !  there  was  no  feeling  there. 

From  that  gloomy  trance  of  sorrow, 
When  you  woke  to  pangs  unknown, 

How  unwelcome  was  the  morrow, 
For  it  rose  on  you  alone  ! 

Sunk  in  self-consuming  anguish, 
Can  the  poor  heart  always  ache  ? 

No,  the  tortured  nerve  will  languish, 
Or  the  strings  of  life  must  break. 

O'er  the  yielding  brow  of  Sadness 
One  faint  smile  of  comfort  stole  ; 

One  soft  pang  of  tender  gladness 
Exquisitely  thrill' d  your  soul. 

While  the  wounds  of  wo  are  healing, 
While  the  heart  is  all  resign'd; 

'Tis  the  solemn  feast  of  feeling, 
'Tis  the  sabbath  of  the  mind. 

Pensive  memory  then  retraces 
Scenes  of  bliss  for  ever  fled, 

Lives  in  former  times  and  places, 
Holds  communion  with  the  dead. 

And  when  night's  prophetic  slumbers 
Rend  the  veil  to  mortal  eyes, 

From  their  tombs  the  sainted  numbers 
Of  our  lost  companions  rise. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    ALEXANDRIA.  207 

You  have  seen  a  friend,  a  brother, 

Heard  a  dear  dead  father  speak ; 
Proved  the  fondness  of  a  mother, 

Felt  her  tears  upon  your  cheek. 

Dreams  of  love  your  grief  beguiling, 

You  have  clasp'd  a  consort's  charms, 
And  received  your  infant  smiling 
From  his  mother's  sacred  arms. 

Trembling-,  pale,  and  agonizing", 

While  you  mourn'd  the  vision  gone, 

Bright  the  morning-star  arising, 

Open'd  heaven,  from  whence  it  shone. 

Thither  all  your  wishes  bending, 

Rose  in  ecstasy  sublime, 
Thither  all  your  hopes  ascending 

Triumph'd  over  death  and  time. 

Thus  afflicted,  bruised,  and  broken, 
Have  you  known  such  sweet  relief? 

Yes,  my  friend  ;  and  by  this  token, 
You  have  felt  "the  joy  of  grief." 

1803. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ALEXANDRIA. 

At  Thebes,  in  Ancient  Esypt,  was  erected  a  statue  of  Memnon,  with  a  harp  in 
his  hand,  which  is  said  to  have  hailed  with  delightful  music  the  rising  sun,  and 
in  melancholy  tones  to  have  mourned  his  departure.  The  introduction  of  this 
celebrated  Lyre,  on  a  modern  occasion,  will  be  censured  as  an  anachronism  by 
those  only  who  think  that  its  chords  have  been  touch'd  unskilfully. 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  sweetly  strung 

To  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
While  the  Hero's  dirge  is  sung, 

Breathe  enchantment  to  our  ears. 

As  the  Sin's  descending  beams, 

Glancing  o'er  thy  feeling  wire, 
Kindle  every  chord  that  gleams, 

Like  a  ray  of  heavenly  fire : 


208  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Let  thy  numbers,  soft  and  slow, 

O'er  the  plain  with  carnage  spread, 

Soothe  the  dying  while  they  flow 
To  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

Bright  as  Beauty,  newly  born, 
Blushing  at  her  maiden  charms  ; 

Fresh  from  Ocean  rose  the  Morn, 
When  the  trumpet  blew  to  arms. 

Terrible  soon  grew  the  light 
On  the  Egyptian  battle-plain, 

As  the  darkness  of  that  night, 
When  the  eldest  born  was  slain. 

Lash'd  to  madness  by  the  wind, 
As  the  Red  Sea  surges  roar, 

Leave  a  gloomy  gulf  behind, 

And  devour  the  shrinking  shore  ; 

Thus,  with  overwhelming  pride, 

Gallia's  brightest,  boldest  boast, 
In  a  deep  and  dreadful  tide, 

Roll'd  upon  the  British  host. 
Dauntless  these  their  station  held, 

Though  with  unextinguished  ire 
Gallia's  legions,  thrice  repell'd, 

Thrice  return'd  through  blood  and  fire. 
Thus,  above  the  storms  of  time, 

Towering  to  the  sacred  spheres, 
Stand  the  Pyramids  sublime, — 

Rocks  amid  the  flood  of  years. 
Now  the  veteran  Chief  drew  nigh, 

Conquest  towering  on  his  crest, 
Valour  beaming  from  his  eye, 

Pity  bleeding  in  his  breast. 

Britain  saw  him  thus  advance 
In  her  Guardian- Angel's  form  ; 

But  he  lower'd  on  hostile  France, 
Like  the  Demon  of  the  Storm. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    ALEXANDRIA. 


On  the  whirlwind  of  the  war 

High  he  rode  in  vengeance  dire ; 

To  his  friends  a  leading  star, 
To  his  foes  consuming  lire. 

Then  the  mighty  pour'd  their  breath, 
Slaughter  feasted  on  the  brave  ! 

'Twas  the  Carnival  of  Death  ; 
'Twas  the  Vintage  of  the  Grave. 

Charged  with  Abercrombie's  doom, 
Lightning  wing'd  a  cruel  ball : 

'Twas  the  Herald  of  the  Tomb, 
And  the  Hero  felt  the  call — 

Felt — and  raised  his  arm  on  high  ; 

Victory  well  the  signal  knew, 
Darted  from  his  awful  eye, 

And  the  force  of  France  o'erthrew. 

But  the  horrors  of  that  fight, 
Were  the  weeping  Muse  to  tell, 

Oh  'twould  cleave  the  womb  of  night, 
And  awake  the  dead  that  fell ! 

Gash'd  with  honourable  scars, 
Low  in  Glory's  lap  they  lie  ; 

Though  they  fell,  they  fell  like  stars, 
Streaming  splendour  through  the  sky. 

Yet  shall  Memory  mourn  that  day, 
When,  with  expectation  pale, 

Of  her  soldier  far  away 

The  poor  widow  hears  the  tale. 

In  imagination  wild, 

She  shall  wander  o'er  this  plain, 
Rave, — and  bid  her  orphan-child 

Seek  his  sire  among  the  slain. 

Gently,  from  the  western  deep, 
O  ye  evening  breezes,  rise  ! 


210  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

O'er  the  Lyre  of  Memnon  sweep, 
Wake  its  spirit  with  your  sighs. 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  sweetly  strung 
To  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 

While  the  Hero's  dirge  is  sung, 
Breathe  enchantment  to  our  ears. 

Let  thy  numbers  soft  and  slow 

O'er  the  plain  with  carnage  spread, 

Soothe  the  dying  while  they  flow 
To  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

None  but  solemn,  tender  tones 

Tremble  from  thy  plaintive  wires : 

Hark  !  the  wounded  Warrior  groans  : 
Hush  thy  warbling  ! — he  expires. 

Hush  ! — while  Sorrow  wakes  and  weeps 
O'er  his  relics  cold  and  pale, 

Night  her  silent  vigil  keeps, 
In  a  mournful  moonlight  vale. 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  from  afar, 
Ere  the  lark  salute  the  sky, 

Watch  the  rising  of  the  star 

That  proclaims  the  morning  nigh. 

Soon  the  Sun^s  ascending  rays, 
In  a  flood  of  hallow'd  fire, 

O'er  thy  kindling  chords  shall  blaze, 
And  thy  magic  soul  inspire. 

Then  thy  tones  triumphant  pour, 
Let  them  pierce  the  Hero's  grave ; 

Life's  tumultuous  battle  o'er, 

Oh  how  sweetly  sleep  the  brave  ! 

From  the  dust  their  laurels  bloom, 
High  they  shoot  and  nourish  free  ; 

Glory's  Temple  is  the  tomb  ; 
Death  is  immortality. 

1801. 


THE    PILLOW.  211 


THE  PILLOW 

The  head  that  oft  this  Pillow  press'd, 
That  aching  head,  is  gone  to  rest ; 
Its  little  pleasures  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  mighty  sorrows  o'er, 
For  ever,  in  the  worm's  dark  bed, 
For  ever  sleeps  that  humble  head ! 

My  friend  was  young,  the  world  was  new ; 
The  world  was  false,  my  friend  was  true ; 
Lowly  his  lot,  his  birth  obscure, 
His  fortune  hard,  my  friend  was  poor ; 
To  wisdom  he  had  no  pretence, 
A  child  of  suffering,  not  of  sense ; 
For  Nature  never  did  impart 
A  weaker  or  a  warmer  heart. 
His  fervent  soul,  a  soul  of  flame, 
Consumed  its  frail  terrestrial  frame  ; 
That  fire  from  Heaven  so  fiercely  burn'd, 
That  whence  it  came  it  soon  return'd : 
And  yet,  O  Pillow  !  yet  to  me, 
My  gentle  Friend  survives  in  thee  ; 
In  thee,  the  partner  of  his  bed, 
In  thee,  the  widow  of  the  dead. 

On  Helicon's  inspiring  brink, 
Ere  yet  my  friend  had  learn'd  to  think, 
Once  as  he  pass'd  the  careless  day 
Among  the  whispering  reeds  at  play, 
The  Muse  of  Sorrow  wander'd  by  ; 
Her  pensive  beauty  fix'd  his  eye  ; 
With  sweet  astonishment  he  smiled  ; 
The  Gipsy  saw — she  ^tole  the  child  ; 
And  soft  on  her  ambrosial  breast 
Sang  the  delighted  babe  to  rest; 
Convey'd  him  to  her  inmost  grove, 
A.nd  loved  him  with  a  Mother's  love. 


212  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Awaking  from  his  rosy  nap, 
And  gaily  sporting  on  her  lap, 
His  wanton  fingers  o'er  her  lyre 
Twinkled  like  electric  fire  : 
Quick  and  quicker  as  they  flew, 
Sweet  and  sweeter  tones  they  drew ; 
Now  a  bolder  hand  he  flings, 
And  dives  among  the  deepest  strings ; 
Then  forth  the  music  brake  like  thunder ; 
Back  he  started,  wild  with  wonder. 
The  Muse  of  Sorrow  wept  for  joy, 
And  clasp'd  and  kiss'd  her  chosen  boy. 

Ah  !  then  no  more  his  smiling  hours 
Were  spent  in  Childhood's  Eden-bowers  ; 
The  fall  from  Infant-innocence, 
The  fall  to  knowledge  drives  us  thence  : 
O  Knowledge  !  worthless  at  the  price, 
Bought  with  the  loss  of  Paradise. 
As  happy  ignorance  declined, 
And  reason  rose  upon  his  mind, 
Romantic  hopes  and  fond  desires 
(Sparks  of  the  soul's  immortal  fires) 
Kindled  within  his  breast  the  rage 
To  breathe  through  every  future  age, 
To  clasp  the  flitting  shade  of  fame, 
To  build  an  everlasting  name, 
O'erleap  the  narrow  vulgar  span, 
And  live  beyond  the  life  of  man. 

Then  Nature's  charms  his  heart  possess'd, 
And  Nature's  glory  filFd  his  breast : 
The  sweet  Spring-morning's  infant  rays, 
Meridian  Summer's  youthful  blaze, 
Maturer  Autumn's  evening  mild, 
And  hoary  Winter's  midnight  wild, 
Awoke  his  eye,  inspired  his  tongue ; 
For  every  scene  he  loved,  he  sung. 
Rude  were  his  songs,  and  simple  truth, 
Till  Boyhood  blossom'd  into  Youth  ; 


THE    PILLOW.  213 


Then  nobler  themes  his  fancy  fired, 

To  bolder  flights  his  soul  aspired  ; 

And  as  the  new  moon's  opening  eye 

Broadens  and  brightens  through  the  sky, 

From  the  dim  streak  of  western  light 

To  the  full  orb  that  rules  the  night ; 

Thus,  gathering  lustre  in  its  race, 

And  shining  through  unbounded  space, 

From  earth  to  heaven  his  Genius  soar'd, 

Time  and  eternity  explored, 

And  hail'd,  where'er  its  footsteps  trod, 

In  Nature's  temple,  Nature's  God : 

Or  pierced  the  human  breast  to  scan 

The  hidden  majesty  of  Man  ; 

Man's  hidden  weakness  too  descried, 

His  glory,  grandeur,  meanness,  pride  : 

Pursued  alone;  their  erring  course 

The  streams  of  passion  to  their  source  ; 

Or  in  the  mind's  creation  sought 

New  stars  of  fancy,  worlds  of  thought. 

— Yet  still  through  all  his  strains  would  flow 

A  tone  of  uncomplaining  wo, 

Kind  as  the  tear  in  Pity's  eye, 

Soft  as  the  slumbering  Infant's  sigh, 

So  sweetly,  exquisitely  wild, 

It  spake  the  Muse  of  Sorrow's  child. 

O  Pillow  !  then,  when  light  withdrew. 
To  thee  the  fond  enthusiast  flew ; 
On  thee,  in  pensive  mood  reclined, 
He  pour'd  his  contemplative  mind, 
Till  o'er  his  eyes  with  mild  control 
Sleep  like  a  soft  enchantment  stole, 
Charm'd  into  life  his  airy  schemes, 
And  realized  his  waking  dreams. 

Soon  from  those  waking  dreams  he  woke, 
The  fairy  spell  of  fancy  broi 
In  vain  he  breathed  a  soul  of  fire 
Through  every  chord  that  strung  his  lyre. 


214  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

No  friendly  echo  cheer'd  his  tongue  ; 
Amidst  the  wilderness  he  sung- ; 
Louder  and  bolder  bards  were  crown'd, 
Whose  dissonance  his  music  drown'd : 
The  public  ear,  the  public  voice, 
Despised  his  song,  denied  his  choice, 
Denied  a  name, — a  life  in  death, 
Denied — a  bubble  and  a  breath. 

Stript  of  his  fondest,  dearest  claim, 
And  disinherited  of  fame, 
To  thee,  O  Pillow  !  thee  alone, 
He  made  his  silent  anguish  known ; 
His  haughty  spirit  scorn'd  the  blow 
That  laid  his  high  ambition  low ; 
But,  ah !  his  looks  assumed  in  vain 
A  cold,  ineffable  disdain, 
While  deep  he  cherish'd  in  his  breast 
The  scorpion  that  consumed  his  rest. 

Yet  other  secret  griefs  had  he, 
O  Pillow  !  only  told  to  thee  : 
Say,  did  not  hopeless  love  intrude 
On  his  poor  bosom's  solitude  1 
Perhaps  on  thy  soft  lap  reclined, 
In  dreams  the  cruel  Fair  was  kind, 
That  more  intensely  he  might  know 
The  bitterness  of  waking  wo. 

Whate'er  those  pangs  from  me  conceal'd, 
To  thee  in  midnight  groans  reveal'd, 
They  stung  remembrance  to  despair : 
"  A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear  !" 
Meanwhile  disease,  with  slow  decay, 
Moulder'd  his  feeble  frame  away ; 
And  as  his  evening  sun  declined, 
The  shadows  deepen'd  o'er  his  mind. 
What  doubts  and  terrors  then  possess'd 
The  dark  dominion  of  his  breast ! 
How  did  delirious  fancy  dwell 
On  Madness,  Suicide,  and  Hell ! 


TO    THE    VOLUNTEERS    OF    BRITAIN.  215 

There  was  on  earth  no  Power  to  save : 

But,  as  he  shudder'd  o'er  the  grave, 

He  saw  from  realms  of  light  descend 
The  friend  of  him  who  has  no  friend, 
Religion  ! — Her  almighty  breath 
Rebuked  the  winds  and  waves  of  death ; 
She  bade  the  storm  of  frenzy  cease, 
And  smiled  a  calm,  and  whisper'd  peace  : 
Amidst  that  calm  of  sweet  repose, 
To  Heaven  his  gentle  Spirit  rose. 

1S03. 


ODE 

TO    THE    VOLUNTEERS   OF    BRITAIN, 

ON  THE   rROSPKCT  OF   INVASION. 

0  for  the  death  of  those 

Who  for  their  country  die,    • 
Sink  on  her  bosom  to  repose, 

And  triumph  where  they  lie ! 

How  beautiful  in  death 

The  Warrior's  corse  appears, 
Embalm'd  by  fond  Affection's  breath, 

And  bathed  in  Woman's  tears  ! 

Their  loveliest  native  earth 

Enshrines  the  fallen  brave  ; 
In  the  dear  land  that  gave  them  birth 

They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 

But  the  wild  waves  shall  sweep 

Britannia's  foes  away, 
And  the  blue  monsters  of  the  deep 

Be  surfeited  with  prey. — 

No  ! — they  have  'scaped  the  waves, 
'Scaped  the  sea-monsters'  maws; 


216  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

They  come  !  but  oh  !  shall  Gallic  Slaves 
Give  English  Freemen  laws  ? 

By  Alfred's  Spirit,  No  ! 

— Ring,  ring  the  loud  alarms  ; 
Ye  drums,  awake  !  ye  clarions,  blow  ! 

Ye  heralds,  shout  "  To  arms  !" 

To  arms  our  Heroes  fly ; 

And,  leading  on  their  lines, 
The  British  Banner  in  the  sky, 

The  star  of  conquest  shines. 

The  lowering  battle  forms 

Its  terrible  array  ; 
Like  clashing  clouds  in  mountain-storms, 

That  thunder  on  their  way  : — 

The  rushing  armies  meet ; 

And  while  they  pour  their  breath, 
The  strong  earth  shudders  at  their  feet, 

The  day  grows  dim  with  death. 

— Ghosts  of  the  mighty  dead ! 

Your  children's  hearts  inspire  ; 
And  while  they  on  your  ashes  tread, 

Rekindle  all  your  fire. 

The  dead  to  life  return  ; 

Our  Fathers'  spirits  rise  ; 
— My  brethren,  in  your  breasts  they  bum, 

They  sparkle  in  your  eyes. 

Now  launch  upon  the  foe 

The  lightning  of  your  rage  ; 
Strike,  strike  the  assailing  giants  low, 

The  Titans  of  the  age. 

They  yield, — they  break, — they  fly  ; 

The  victory  is  won  : 
Pursue  ! they  faint, — they  fall, — they  die 

Oh,  stay  ! the  work  is  done. 


TO    THE    VOLUNTEERS    OF    BRITAIN.  217 

Spirit  of  Vengeance  !  rest: 

Sweet  Mercy  cries,  "  Forbear  !" 
She  clasps  the  vanquish'd  to  her  breast ; 
Thou  wilt  not  pierce  them  there  ? 

Thus  vanish  Britain's  foes 

From  her  consuming  eye  ; 
But  rich  be  the  reward  of  those 

Who  conquer, those  who  die. 

O'ershadowing  laurels  deck 

The  living-  Hero's  brows ; 
But  lovelier  wreaths  entwine  his  neck, 

— His  children  and  his  spouse. 

Exulting  o'er  his  lot, 

The  dangers  he  has  braved, 
He  clasps  the  dear  ones,  hails  the  cot, 

Which  his  own  valour  saved. 

Daughters  of  Albion,  weep  : 

On  this  triumphant  plain, 
Your  fathers,  husbands,  brethren  sleep, 

For  you  and  freedom  slain. 

Oh  !  gently  close  the  eye 

That  loved  to  look  on  you  ; 
Oh  !  seal  the  lip  whose  earliest  sigh, 

Whose  latest  breath  was  true  : 

With  knots  of  sweetest  flowers 

Their  winding-sheet  perfume  ; 
And  wash  their  wounds  with  true-love  showrers, 

And  dress  them  for  the  tomb. 

For  beautiful  in  death 

The  Warrior's  corse  appears, 
Embalm'd  by  fond  Affection's  breath, 

And  bathed  in  Woman's  tears. 

Give  me  the  death  of  those 


Who  for  their  country  die  ; 
19 


218  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  oh  !  be  mine  like  their  repose, 
When  cold  and  low  they  he  ! 

Their  loveliest  mother  Earth 
Enshrines  the  fallen  brave  ; 

In  her  sweet  lap  who  gave  them  birth 
They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 

1804. 


THE  VIGIL  OF  ST.  MARK. 

Returning  from  their  evening  walk, 

On  yonder  ancient  stile, 
In  sweet,  romantic,  tender  talk, 

Two  lovers  paused  awhile  : 

Edmund,  the  monarch  of  the  dale, 
All  conscious  of  his  powers  ; 

Ella,  the  lily  of  the  vale, 

The  rose  of  Auburn's  bowers. 

In  airy  Love's  delightful  bands 

He  held  her  heart  in  vain : 
The  Nymph  denied  her  willing  hands 

To  Hymen's  awful  chain. 

"Ah  !  why,"  said  he,  "  our  bliss  delay  ? 

Mine  Ella,  why  so  cold  ? 
Those  who  but  love  from  day  to  day, 

From  day  to  day  grow  old. 

"  The  bounding  arrow  cleaves  the  sky, 

Nor  leaves  a  trace  behind ; 
And  single  lives  like  arrows  fly, 

— They  vanish  through  the  wind. 

"  In  Wedlock's  sweet  endearing  lot, 

Let  us  improve  the  scene, 
That  some  may  be,  when  we  are  not, 

To  tell — that  we  have  been." 


THE    VIGIL    OF    ST.    MARK.  219 

"  'Tis  now,"  replied  the  village  Belle, 

"  St.  Mark's  mysterious  Eve  ; 
And  all  that  old  traditions  tell 

I  tremblingly  believe  ; — 

"  How,  when  the  midnight  signal  tolls, 

Along  the  churchyard  green 
A  mournful  train  of  sentenced  souls 

In  winding-sheets  are  seen. 

"  The  ghosts  of  all  whom  death  shall  doom 

Within  the  coming  year, 
In  pale  procession  walk  the  gloom, 

Amid  the  silence  drear. 

"  If  Edmund,  bold  in  conscious  might, 

By  love  severely  tried, 
Can  brave  the  terrors  of  to-night, 

Ella  will  be  his  bride." 

She  spake, — and,  like  the  nimble  fawn, 

From  Edmund's  presence  fled  : 
He  sought,  across  the  rural  lawn, 

The  dwelling  of  the  dead  ; — 

That  silent,  solemn,  simple  spot, 

The  mouldering  realm  of  peace, 
Where  human  passions  are  forgot, 

Where  human  follies  cease. 

The  gliding  moon  through  heaven  serene 

Pursued  her  tranquil  way, 
And  shed  o'er  all  the  sleeping  scene 

A  soft  nocturnal  day. 

With  swelling  heart  and  eager  feet 

Young  Edmund  gain'd  the  church, 
And  chose  his  solitary  seat 

Within  the  dreadful  porch. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Thick,  threatening  clouds  assembled  soon, 
Their  dragon  wings  display'd  ; 

Eclipsed  the  slow  retiring  moon, 
And  quench'd  the  stars  in  shade. 

Amid  the  deep  abyss  of  gloom 

No  ray  of  beauty  smiled, 
Save,  glistening  o'er  some  haunted  tomb, 

The  glow-worm's  lustre  wild. 

The  village  watch-dogs  bay'd  around, 
The  long  grass  whistled  drear, 

The  steeple  trembled  to  the  ground, 
Ev'n  Edmund  quaked  with  fear. 

All  on  a  sudden  died  the  blast, 

Dumb  horror  chill'd  the  air, 
While  Nature  seem'd  to  pause  aghast, 

In  uttermost  despair. 

— Twelve  times  the  midnight  herald  toll'd, 

As  oft  did  Edmund  start ; 
For  every  stroke  fell  dead  and  cold 

Upon  his  fainting  heart. 

Then  glaring  through  the  ghastly  gloom, 

Along  the  churchyard  green, 
The  destined  victims  of  the  tomb 

In  winding-sheets  were  seen. 

In  that  strange  moment  Edmund  stood, 

Sick  with  severe  surprise  ! 
While  creeping  horror  drank  his  blood, 

And  fix'd  his  flinty  eyes. 

He  saw  the  secrets  of  the  grave ; 

He  saw  the  face  of  DEATH  : 
No  pitying  power  appear'd  to  save — 

He  gasp'd  away  his  breath. 


THE    VIGIL    OF    ST.    MARK.  221 

Yet  still  the  scene  his  soul  beguiled, 

And  every  spectre  cast 
A  look,  unutterably  wild, 

On  Edmund  as  they  pass'd. 

All  on  the  ground  entranced  he  lay ; 

At  length  the  vision  broke  : 
— When,  lo ! — a  kiss,  as  cold  as  clay, 

The  slumbering  youth  awoke. 

That  moment  through  a  rifted  cloud, 

The  darting  moon  displayed, 
Robed  in  a  melancholy  shroud, 

The  image  of  a  maid. 

Her  dusk)-  veil  aside  she  drew, 

And  show'd  a  face  most  fair : 
— "  My  Love  !  my  Ella  !"  Edmund  flew, 

And  clasp'd  the  yielding  air. 

"  Ha !  who  art  thou  ?"  His  cheek  grew  pale  ; 

A  well-known  voice  replied, 
"  Ella,  the  lily  of  the  vale  ; 

Ella — thy  destined  bride." 

To  win  his  neck  her  airy  arms 

The  pallid  phantom  spread  ; 
Recoiling  from  her  blasted  charms, 

The  affrighted  lover  fled. 

To  shun  the  visionary  maid, 

His  speed  outstript  the  wind  ; 
But, — though  unseen  to  move, — the  shade 

Was  evermore  behind. 

So  Death's  unerring  arrows  glide, 

Yet  seem  suspended  still ; 
Nor  pause,  nor  shrink,  nor  turn  aside, 

But  smite,  subdue,  and  kill. 


222  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

O'er  many  a  mountain,  moor,  and  vale, 

On  that  tremendous  night, 
The  ghost  of  Ella,  wild  and  pale, 

Pursued  her  lover's  flight. 

But  when  the  dawn  began  to  gleam, 
Ere  yet  the  morning  shone, 

She  vanish'd  like  a  nightmare-dream, 
And  Edmund  stood  alone. 

Three  days,  bewilder'd  and  forlorn, 
He  sought  his  home  in  vain  ; 

At  length  he  hail'd  the  hoary  thorn 
That  crown'd  his  native  plain. 

'Twas  evening ; — all  the  air  was  balm, 
The  heavens  serenely  clear  ; 

When  the  soft  music  of  a  psalm 
Came  pensive  o'er  his  ear. 

Then  sunk  his  heart ; — a  strange  surmise 
Made  all  his  blood  run  cold  : 

He  flew, — a  funeral  met  his  eyes : 
He  paused, — a  death-bell  toll'd. 

"  'Tis  she  !  'tis  she  !" — He  bursts  away  ; 

And  bending  o'er  the  spot 
Where  all  that  once  was  Ella  lay, 

He  all  beside  forgot. 

A  maniac  now,  in  dumb  despair, 
With  love-bewilder' d  mien, 

He  wanders,  weeps,  and  watches  there, 
Among  the  hillocks  green. 

And  every  Eve  of  pale  St.  Ma.rk, 

As  village  hinds  relate, 
He  walks  with  Ella  in  the  dark, 

And  reads  the  rolls  of  Fate. 

1799. 


HANNAH. 


HANNAH. 

At  fond  sixteen  my  roving  heart 
Was  pierced  by  Love's  delightful  dart : 
Keen  transport  throbb'd  through  every  vein, 
— I  never  felt  so  sweet  a  pain  ! 

Where  circling  woods  cmbower'd  the  glade, 
I  met  the  dear  romantic  maid  : 
I  stole  her  hand, — it  shrunk, — but  no  ; 
I  would  not  let  my  captive  go. 

With  all  the  fervency  of  youth, 
While  passion  told  the  tale  of  truth, 
I  mark'd  my  Hannah's  downcast  eye — 
'Twas  kind,  but  beautifully  shy : 

Not  with  a  warmer,  purer  ray, 
The  sun,  enamour'd,  woos  young  May  ; 
Nor  May,  with  softer  maiden  grace, 
Turns  from  the  sun  her  blushing  face. 

But,  swifter  than  the  frighted  dove, 
Fled  the  gay  morning  of  my  love  ; 
Ah  !  that  so  bright  a  morn,  so  soon 
Should  vanish  in  so  dark  a  noon. 

The  angel  of  Affliction  rose, 
And  in  his  grasp  a  thousand  woes ; 
He  pour'd  his  vial  on  my  head, 
And  all  the  heaven  of  rapture  fled. 

Yet,  in  the  glory  of  my  pride, 

I  stood, — and  all  his  wrath  defied; 

I  stood, — though  whirlwinds  shook  my  brain, 

And  lightnings  cleft  my  soul  in  twain. 


224  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

I  shunn'd  my  nymph  ; — and  knew  not  why 
I  durst  not  meet  her  gentle  eye  ; 
I  shunn'd  her,  for  I  could  not  bear 
To  marry  her  to  my  despair. 

Yet,  sick  at  heart  with  hope  delay' d, 
Oft  the  dear  image  of  that  maid 
Glanced,  like  the  rainbow,  o'er  my  mind, 
And  promised  happiness  behind. 

The  storm  blew  o'er,  and  in  my  breast 
The  halcyon  Peace  rebuilt  her  nest : 
The  storm  blew  o'er,  and  clear  and  mild 
The  sea  of  Youth  and  Pleasure  smiled. 

'Twas  on  the  merry  morn  of  May, 
To  Hannah's  cot  I  took  my  way  : 
My  eager  hopes  were  on  the  wing. 
Like  swallows  sporting  in  the  spring. 

Then  as  I  climb'd  the  mountains  o'er, 
I  lived  my  wooing  days  once  more  ; 
And  fancy  sketch' d  my  married  lot, 
My  wife,  my  children,  and  my  cot. 

I  saw  the  village  steeple  rise, — 
My  soul  sprang,  sparkling,  in  my  eyes  : 
The  rural  bells  rang  sweet  and  clear, — 
My  fond  heart  listen'd  in  mine  ear. 

I  reach'd  the  hamlet : — all  was  gay  ; 

I  love  a  rustic  holy  day  : 

I  met  a  wedding, — stepp'd  aside  ; 

It  pass'd, — my  Hannah  was  the  bride. 

There  is  a  grief  that  cannot  feel ; 

It  leaves  a  wound  that  will  not  heal ; 

My  heart  grew  cold, — it  felt  not  then ; 

When  shall  it  cease  to  feel  again  ? 

1801. 


A    FIELD    FLOWER.  22.0 


A  FIELD  FLOWER. 

ON   FINDING   ONE   IN    FULL   BLOOM,    ON    CHRISTMAS   DAY,    1803. 

There  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower, 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye, 

That  welcomes  every  changing  hour, 
And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field 
In  gay  but  quick  succession  shine, 

Race  after  race  their  honours  yield, 
They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  Nature  dear, 

While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 

Wreathes  the  whole  circle  of  the  year, 
Companion  of  the  Sun. 

It  smiles  upon  the  lap  of  May, 

To  sultry  August  spreads  its  charms, 

Lights  pale  October  on  his  way, 
And  twines  December's  arms. 

The  purple  heath  and  golden  broom 
On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale, 

O'er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume, 
The  violet  in  the  vale. 

But  this  bold  floweret  climbs  the  hill, 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 

Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill, 
Peeps  round  the  fox's  den. 

Within  the  garden's  cultured  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation's  bed; 

A  ad  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honour  of  the  dead. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


The  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem, 
The  wild-bee  murmurs  on  its  breast, 

The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem, 
Light  o'er  the  sky-lark's  nest. 

'Tis  Flora's  page  ; in  every  place, 

In  every  season  fresh  and  fair, 

It  opens  with  perennial  grace, 
And  blossoms  every  where. 

On  waste  and  woodland,  rock  and  plain, 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise  ; 

The  Rose  has  but  a  summer-reign, 
The  DAISY  never  dies. 


THE  SNOW-DROP. 

Winter,  retire, 

Thy  reign  is  past ; 

Hoary  Sire, 

Yield  the  sceptre  of  thy  sway, 

Sound  thy  trumpet  in  the  blast, 

And  call  thy  storms  away. 

Winter,  retire ; 

Wherefore  do  thy  wheels  delay  ? 

Mount  the  chariot  of  thine  ire, 

And  quit  the  realms  of  day  ; 

On  thy  state 

Whirlwinds  wait ; 

And  blood-shot  meteors  lend  thee  light ; 

Hence  to  dreary  arctic  regions 

Summon  thy  terrific  legions  ; 

Hence  to  caves  of  northern  night 

Speed  thy  flight. 

From  halcyon  seas 
And  purer  skies, 
O  southern  breeze ! 
Awake,  arise : 


THE    SNOW-DROP.  227 


Breath  of  heaven,  benignly  blow, 

Melt  the  snow : 

Breath  of  heaven,  unchain  the  floods, 

Warm  the  woods, 

And  make  the  mountains  flow. 

Auspicious  to  the  Muse's  prayer, 

The  freshening  gale 

Embalms  the  vale, 

And  breathes  enchantment  through  the  air ; 

On  its  wing 

Floats  the  Spring, 

With  glowing  eye,  and  golden  hair : 

Dark  before  her  Angel-form 

She  drives  the  demon  of  the  storm, 

Like  Gladness  chasing  Care. 

Winter's  gloomy  night  withdrawn, 
Lo  !  the  young  romantic  Hours 
Search  the  hill,  the  dale,  the  lawn, 
To  behold  the  SNOW-DROP  white 
Start  to  light, 

And  shine  in  Flora's  desert  bowers, 
Beneath  the  vernal  dawn, 
The  Morning  Star  of  Flowers. 

Oh  !  welcome  to  our  isle, 

Thou  Messenger  of  Peace  ! 

At  whose  bewitching  smile 

The  embattled  tempests  cease  : 

Emblem  of  Innocence  and  Truth, 

First  born  of  Nature's  womb, 

When  strong  in  renovated  youth 

She  bursts  from  Winter's  tomb ; 

Thy  parent's  eye  hath  shed 

A  precious  dew-drop  on  thine  head, 

Frail  as  a  mother's  tear 

Upon  her  infant's  face, 

When  ardent  hope  to  tender  fear, 

And  anxious  love,  gives  place. 


I\I  ISC KLLANEOUS    POEMS. 


But,  lo  !  the  dew-drop  flits  away, 
The  sun  salutes  thee  with  a  ray- 
Warm  as  a  mother's  kiss 
Upon  her  infant's  cheek, 
When  the  heart  bounds  with  bliss, 
And  joy  that  cannot  speak. 

When  I  meet  thee  by  the  way* 

Like  a  pretty  sportive  child, 

On  the  winter-wasted  wild, 

With  thy  darling  breeze  at  play, 

Opening  to  the  radiant  sky 

All  the  sweetness  of  thine  eye  ; 

— Or  bright  with  sunbeams,  fresh  with  showers, 

O  thou  Fairy-Queen  of  flowers  ! 

Watch  thee  o'er  the  plain  advance 

At  the  head  of  Flora's  dance  ; 

Simple  SNOW-DROP,  then  in  thee 

All  thy  sister-train  I  see  ; 

Every  brilliant  bud  that  blows, 

From  the  blue-bell  to  the  rose  ; 

All  the  beauties  that  appear 

On  the  bosom  of  the  Year, 

All  that  wreathe  the  locks  of  Spring, 

Summer's  ardent  breath  perfume, 

Or  on  the  lap  of  Autumn  bloom, 

— All  to  thee  their  tribute  bring, 

Exhale  their  incense  at  thy  shrine, 

— Their  hues,  their  odours,  all  are  thine, 

For  while  thy  humble  form  I  view, 

The  Muse's  keen  prophetic  sight 

Brings  fair  Futurity  to  light, 

And  Fancy's  magic  makes  the  vision  true. 

— There  is  a  Winter  in  my  soul, 

The  winter  of  despair  ; 

Oh,  when  shall  Spring  its  rage  control? 

When  shall  the  snow-drop  blossom  there  ? 

Cold  gleams  of  comfort  sometimes  dart^ 


A.N     EPITAPH.  229 


A  dawn  of  glory  on  my  heart, 

But  quickly  pass  away  : 

Thus  Northern-lights  the  gloom  adorn, 

And  give  the  promise  of  a  morn 

That  never  turns  to  day  ! 

But,  hark  !  methinks  I  hear 

A  still  small  whisper  in  mine  ear ; 

"  Rash  youth,  repent : 

Afflictions,  from  above, 

Are  angels  sent 

On  embassies  of  love. 

A  fiery  legion  at  thy  birth, 

Of  chastening  woes  were  given, 

To  pluck  the  flowers  of  hope  from  earth, 

And  plant  them  high 

O'er  yonder  sky, 

Transform'd  to  stars, — and  fix'd  in  heaven." 

1805. 


AN  EPITAPH. 

Art  thou  a  man  of  honest  mould, 

With  fervent  heart,  and  soul  sincere  ? 

A  husband,  father,  friend  ? — Behold, 
Thy  brother  slumbers  here. 

The  sun  that  wakes  yon  violet's  bloom, 
Once  cheer'd  his  eye,  now  dark  in  death, 

The  wind  that  wanders  o'er  his  tomb 
Was  once  his  vital  breath. 

The  roving  wind  shall  pass  away, 
The  warming  sun  forsake  the  sky ; 

Thy  brother,  in  that  dreadful  day, 
Shall  live  and  never  die. 


20 


230  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  OCEAN. 

WRITTEN   AT   SCARBOROUGH,    IN   THE   SUMMER   OF   1805. 

All  hail  to  the  ruins,*  the  rocks  and  the  shores  ! 
Thou  wide-rolling  Ocean,  all  hail ! 

Now  brilliant  with  sunbeams,  and  dimpled  with  oars, 
Now  dark  with  the  fresh-blowing-  gale, 
While  soft  o'er  thy  bosom  the  cloud-shadows  sail, 

And  the  silver  winp-'d  sea-fowl  on  hiofh, 

Like  meteors  bespangle  the  sky, 

Or  dive  in  the  gulf,  or  triumphantly  ride 

Like  foam  on  the  surges,  the  swans  of  the  tide. 

From  the  tumult  and  smoke  of  the  city  set  free, 

With  eager  and  awful  delight, 
From  the  crest  of  the  mountain  I  gaze  upon  thee  ; 

I  gaze, — and  am  changed  at  the  sight ; 

For  mine  eye  is  illumined,  my  Genius  takes  flight, 
My  soul,  like  the  sun,  with  a  glance 
Embraces  the  boundless  expanse, 
And  moves  on  thy  waters,  wherever  they  roll, 
From  the  day-darting  zone  to  the  night-shadow'd  pole. 

My  spirit  descends  where  the  day-spring  is  born, 
Where  the  billows  are  rubies  on  fire, 

And  the  breezes  that  rock  the  light  cradle  of  morn 
Are  sweet  as  the  Phoenix's  pyre  : 
O  regions  of  beauty,  of  love,  and  desire  ! 

O  gardens  of  Eden  !  in  vain 

Placed  far  on  the  fathomless  main, 

Where  Nature  with  Innocence  dwelt  in  her  youth, 

When  pure  was  her  heart,  and  unbroken  her  truth. 

*  Scarborough  Castle. 


THE    OCEAN.  231 


But  now  the  fair  rivers  of  Paradise  wind 

Through  countries  and  kingdoms  overthrown : 

Where  the  giant  of  Tyranny  crushes  mankind, 
Where  he  reigns, — and  will  soon  reign  alone ; 
For  wide  and  more  wide,  o'er  the  sun-beaming  zone, 

He  stretches  his  hundred-fold  arms, 

Despoiling,  destroying  its  charms  ; 

Beneath  his  broad  footstep  the  Ganges  is  dry, 

And  the  mountains  recoil  from  the  flash  of  his  eye. 

Thus  the  pestilent  Upas,  the  Demon  of  trees, 

Its  boughs  o'er  the  wilderness  spreads, 
And  with  livid  contagion  polluting  the  breeze, 

Its  mildewing  influence  sheds  : 

The  birds  on  the  wing,  and  the  flowers  in  their  beds, 
Are  slain  by  its  venomous  breath, 
That  darkens  the  noonday  with  death ; 
And  pale  ghosts  of  travellers  wander  around, 
While  their  mouldering  skeletons  whiten  the  ground. 

Ah !  why  hath  Jehovah,  in  forming  the  world, 
With  the  waters  divided  the  land, 

His  ramparts  of  rocks  round  the  continent  hurl'd, 
And  cradled  the  Deep  in  his  hand, 
If  man  may  transgress  his  eternal  command, 

And  leap  o'er  the  bounds  of  his  birth, 

To  ravage  the  uttermost  earth, 

And  violate  nations  and  realms  that  should  be 

Distinct  as  the  billows,  yet  one  as  the  sea  ? 

There  arc,  gloomy  Ocean  !  a  brotherless  clan, 

Who  traverse  thy  banishing  waves 
The  poor  disinherited  outcasts  of  man, 

Whom  Avarice  coins  into  slaves  : 

From  the  homes  of  their  kindred,  their  forefathers'  graves, 
Love,  friendship,  and  conjugal  bliss, 
They  are  dragg'd  on  the  hoary  abyss; 
The  shark  hears  their  shrieks,  and,  ascending  to  day, 
Demands  of  the  spoiler  his  share  of  the  prey. 


232  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then  joy  to  the  tempest  that  whelms  them  beneath, 

And  makes  their  destruction  its  sport ! 
But  wo  to  the  winds  that  propitiously  breathe, 

And  waft  them  in  safety  to  port, 

Where  the  vultures  and  vampires  of  Mammon  resort ; 
Where  Europe  exultingly  drains 
The  life-blood  from  Africa's  veins  ; 
Where  man  rules  o'er  man  with  a  merciless  rod, 
And  spurns  at  his  footstool  the  image  of  God ! 

The  hour  is  approaching, — a  terrible  hour ! 
And  Vengeance  is  bending  her  bow  ; 

Already  the  clouds  of  the  hurricane  lour, 
And  the  rock-rending  whirlwinds  blow  : 
Back  rolls  the  huge  Ocean,  Hell  opens  below : 

The  floods  return  headlong, — they  sweep 

The  slave-cultured  lands  to  the  deep  ; 

In  a  moment  entomb'd  in  the  horrible  void, 

By  their  Maker  Himself  in  his  anger  destroy'd  ! 

Shall  this  be  the  fate  of  the  cane-planted  isles, 

More  lovely  than  clouds  in  the  west, 
When  the  sun  o'er  the  ocean  descending  in  smiles 

Sinks  softly  and  sweetly  to  rest  ? 

— NO  ! — Father  of  mercy  !  befriend  the  opprest ; 
At  the  voice  of  thy  Gospel  of  peace 
May  the  sorrows  of  Africa  cease  ; 
And  the  slave  and  his  master  devoutly  unite 
To  walk  in  thy  freedom,  and  dwell  in  thy  light  '.* 

As  homeward  my  weary-wing'd  Fancy  extends 
Her  star-lighted  course  through  the  skies, 

High  over  the  mighty  Atlantic  ascends, 
And  turns  upon  Europe  her  eyes  ; 
Ah  me  !  what  new  prospects,  new  horrors  arise  ! 


*  Alluding  to  the  glorious  success  of  the  Moravian  Missionaries  among  the 
Negroes  in  the  West  Indies. 


TIIK    OCEAN.  233 


I  see  the  war-tempested  fleod 

All  foaming,  and  panting  with  blood; 

The  panic-struck  Ocean  in  agony  roars, 

Rebounds  from  the  battle,  and  flies  to  his  shores ; 

For  Britannia  is  wielding  the  trident  to-day, 

Consuming  her  foes  in  her  ire, 
And  hurling  the  thunder  of  absolute  sway 

From  her  wave-ruling  chariots  of  fire  : 

— She  triumphs  ; — the  winds  and  the  waters  conspire 
To  spread  her  invincible  name  ; 
— The  universe  rings  with  her  fame ; 
— But  the  cries  of  the  fatherless  mix  with  her  praise, 
And  the  tears  of  the  widow  are  shed  on  her  bays.* 

O  Britain  !  dear  Britain!  the  land  of  my  birth; 

O  Isle,  most  enchantingly  fair  ! 
Thou  Pearl  of  the  Ocean  !  Thou  Gem  of  the  Earth  ! 

O  my  Mother!   my  Mother!   beware  ; 

For  wealth  is  a  phantom,  and  empire  a  snare  : 
O  let  not  thy  birthright  be  sold 
For  reprobate  glory  and  gold  ! 
Thy  distant  dominions  like  wild  graftings  shoot, 
They  weigh  down  thy  trunk — they  will  tear  up  thy  root  :■ 

The  root  of  thine  OAK,  O  my  country  !  that  stands 
Rock-planted,  and  flourishing  free  ; 

Its  branches  are  stretch'd  o'er  the  uttermost  lands, 
-And  its  shadow  eclipses  the  sea  : 
The  blood  of  our  ancestors  nourish'd  the  tree  ; 

From  their  tombs,  from  their  ashes  it  sprung; 

It-  boughs  with  their  trophies  are  hung; 

Their  spirit  dwells  in  it : — and,  hark  !  for  it  spoke  ; 

The  voice  of  our  fathers  ascends  from  their  Oak  : — 


*  While  the  author  was  meditating  these  stanzas,  in  siirlit  of  the  ocean  from 
the  northern  cliffs,  intelligence  arrive. I  of  the  naval  victory  of  8ii  Robert  Calder, 
over  the  French  and  Spanish  fleets  off  the  western  coast  of  Spain. 

2lT 


234  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"  Ye  Britons,  who  dwell  where  jve  conquer' d  of  old, 

Who  inherit  our  battle-field  graves  ; 
Though  poor  were  your  fathers, — gigantic  and  bold, 

We  were  not,  we  could  not  be  slaves ; 

But  firm  as  our  rocks,  and  as  free  as  our  waves, 
The  spears  of  the  Romans  we  broke, 
We  never  stoop'd  under  their  yoke  ; 
In  the  shipwreck  of  nations  we  stood  up  alone, — 
The  world  was  great  Cesar's, — but  Britain  our  own. 

"  For  ages  and  ages,  with  barbarous  foes, 

The  Saxon,  Norwegian,  and  Gaul, 
We  wrestled,  were  foil'd,  were  cast  down,  but  we  rose 

With  new  vigour,  new  life  from  each  fall ; 

By  all  we  were  conquered: — we  conquer'd  them  all  ! 
— The  cruel,  the  cannibal  mind. 
We  soften'd,  subdued,  and  refined  : 

Bears,  wolves,  and  sea  monsters,  they  rush'd  from  their  den ; 
We  taught  them,  we  tamed  them,  we  turn'd  them  to  men. 

"  Love  led  the  wild  hordes  in  his  flower-woven  bands, 

The  tenderest,  strongest  of  chains  : 
Love  married  our  hearts,  he  united  our  hands, 

And  mingled  the  blood  in  our  veins  ; 

One  race  we  became  :— on  the  mountains  and  plains 
Where  the  wounds  of  our  country  were  closed, 
The  Ark  of  Religion  reposed, 
The  unquenchable  Altar  of  Liberty  blazed, 
And  the  Temple  of  Justice  in  Mercy  was  raised. 

"  Ark,  Altar,  and  Temple,  we  left  with  our  breath  ! 
To  our  children,  a  sacred  bequest : 

O  guard  them,  O  keep  them,  in  life  and  in  death ! 
So  the  shades  of  your  fathers  shall  rest, 
And  your  spirits  with  ours  be  in  Paradise  blest : 

— Let  Ambition,  the  sin  of  the  brave, 

And  Avarice,  the  soul  of  a  slave, 

No  longer  seduce  your  affections  to  roam 

From  Liberty,  Justice,  Religion,  AT  HOME." 


THE    COMMON    LOT. 


THE  COMMON  LOT. 

A  Birthday  Meditation,  daring  a  solitary  w  inter  walk,  of  seven  miles,  between 
a  village  in  Derbyshire  and  Sheffield,  when  the  ground  was  covered  with 
snow,  the  sky  serene,  and  the  morning  air  intensely  pure. 

Once  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

There  lived  a  man  : — and  who  was  he  ? 

— Mortal !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  Man  resembled  Thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown : 

His  name  has  perish'd  from  the  earth ; 
This  truth  survives  alone  : — 

That  joy  and  grief,  and  hope  and  fear, 

Alternate  triumph'd  in  his  breast ; 
His  bliss  and  wo, — a  smile,  a  tear  ! 

— Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb, 
The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall ; 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him, 
For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

He  sufTer'd, — but  his  pangs  are  o'er ; 

Enjoy'd, — but  his  delights  are  fled  ; 
Had  friends. — his  friends  are  now  no  more  ; 

And  foes, — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved,  but  whom  he  loved,  the  crave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb : 

Oh,  she  was  fair! — but  nought  could  save 
I  [er  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hasl  seen  ; 
Encounter'd  all  that  troubles  thee: 

He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been; 
He  is — what  thou  shah  be. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and  main, 

Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw 

Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began, 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 

Than  this, — there  lived  a  man  ! 

November  4, 1S05. 


THE  HARP   OF   SORROW. 

I  gave  my  Harp  to  Sorrow's  hand, 
And  she  has  ruled  the  chords  so  long, 

They  will  not  speak  at  my  command  ; — 
They  warble  only  to  her  song. 

Of  dear,  departed  hours, 

Too  fondly  loved  to  last, 
The  dew,  the  breath,  the  bloom  of  flowers, 

Snapt  in  their  freshness  by  the  blast : 

Of  long,  long  years  of  future  care, 

Till  lingering  Nature  yields  her  breath, 

And  endless  ages  of  despair, 

Beyond  the  judgment-day  of  death: — 

The  weeping  Minstrel  sings  ; 

And  while  her  numbers  flow, 
My  spirit  trembles  with  the  strings, 

Responsive  to  the  notes  of  wo. 

Would  gladness  move  a  sprightlier  strain, 
And  wake  this  wild  Harp's  clearest  tones, 


THE    HARP    OF    SORROW.  237 

The  chords,  impatient  to  complain, 
Are  dumb,  or  only  utter  moans. 

And  yet,  to  soothe  the  mind 

With  luxury  of  grief, 
The  soul  to  suffering  all  resign'd 

In  sorrow's  music  feels  relief. 

Thus  o'er  the  light  iEolian  lyre 

The  winds  of  dark  November  stray, 
Touch  the  quick  nerve  of  every  wire, 

And  on  its  magic  pulses  play  ; — 

Till  all  the  air  around, 

Mysterious  murmurs  fill, 
A  strange  bewildering  dream  of  sound, 

Most  heavenly  sweet, — yet  mournful  still. 

O !  snatch  the  Harp  from  Sorrow's  hand, 
Hope  !  who  hast  been  a  stranger  long  ; 

O !  strike  it  with  sublime  command, 
And  be  the  Poet's  life  thy  song. 

Of  vanish' d  troubles  sing, 

Of  fears  for  ever  fled, 
Of  flowers  that  hear  the  voice  of  Spring, 

And  burst  and  blossom  from  the  dead ; — 

Of  home,  contentment,  health,  repose, 
Serene  delights,  while  years  increase ; 

And  weary  life's  triumphant  close 

In  some  calm  sunset  hour  of  peace  ; — 

Of  bliss  that  reigns  above, 

Celestial  May  of  Youth, 
Unchanging  as  Jehovah's  love, 

And  everlasting  as  his  truth  : — 

Sing,  heavenly  hope! — and  dart  thine  hand 
O'er  my  frail  Harp,  untuned  so  long; 

That  Harp  shall  breathe,  at  thy  command, 
Immortal  sweetness  through  thy  song. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Ah  !  then,  this  gloom  control, 
And  at  thy  voice  shall  start 

A  new  creation  in  my  soul, 
A  native  Eden  in  my  heart. 


1807. 


POPE'S  WILLOW. 


Written  for  an  Urn,  made  out  of  the  Trunk  of  the  Weeping  Willow,  imported 
from  the  East,  and  planted  by  Pope  in  his  grounds  at  Twickenham,  where  it 
flourished  many  years ;  but,  falling  into  decay,  it  was  lately  cut  down. 

Ere  Pope  resign'd  his  tuneful  breath, 

And  made  the  turf  his  pillow, 
The  minstrel  hung  his  harp  in  death 

Upon  the  drooping  Willow  ; 
That  Willow  from  Euphrates'  strand, 
Had  sprung  beneath  his  training  hand. 

Long  as  revolving  seasons  flew, 

From  youth  to  age  it  flourish'd, 
By  vernal  winds  and  starlight  dew, 

By  showers  and  sunbeams  nourish'd ; 
And  while  in  dust  the  Poet  slept, 
The  Willow  o'er  his  ashes  wept. 

Old  Time  beheld  its  silvery  head 
With  graceful  grandeur  towering, 

Its  pensile  boughs  profusely  spread, . 
The  breezy  lawn  embowering, 

Till,  arch'd  around,  there  seem'd  to  shoot 

A  grove  of  scions  from  one  root. 

Thither,  at  summer  noon,  he  view'd 
The  lovely  Nine  retreating, 


239 


Beneath  its  twilight  solitude 

With  songs  their  Poet  greeting, 
Whose  spirit  in  the  Willow  spoke, 
Like  Jove's  from  dark  Dodona's  oak. 

By  harvest  moonlight  there  he  spied 

The  fairy  bands  advancing  ; 
Bright  Ariel's  troop,  on  Thames's  side, 

Around  the  Willow  dancing  ; 
Gay  sylphs  among  the  foliage  play'd, 
And  glow-worms  glitter'd  in  the  shade. 

One  morn,  while  Time  thus  mark'd  the  tree 

In  beauty  green  and  glorious, 
"The  hand,"  he  cried,  "that  planted  thee, 

O'er  mine  was  oft  victorious  ; 
Be  vengeance  now  my  calm  employ, — 
One  work  of  Pope's  I  will  destroy." 

He  spake,  and  struck  a  silent  blow 
With  that  dread  arm,  whose  motion 

Lays  cedars,  thrones,  and  temples  low, 
And  wields  o'er  land  and  ocean 

The  unremitting  axe  of  doom, 

That  fells  the  forest  of  the  tomb. 

Deep  to  the  Willow's  root  it  went, 

And  cleft  the  core  asunder, 
Like  sudden,  secret  lightning,  sent 

Without  recording  thunder  : — 
— From  that  sad  moment,  slow  away 
Began  the  Willow  to  decay. 

In  vain  did  Spring  those  bowers  restore, 
Where  loves  and  graces  revell'd, 

Autumn's  wild  gales  the  branches  tore, 
The  thin  gray  leaves  disheveU'd, 

And  every  wasting  Winter  found 

The  Willow  nearer  to  the  ground. 


240  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Hoary,  and  weak,  and  bent  with  age, 
At  length  the  axe  assail' d  it : 

It  bow'd  before  the  woodman's  rage  ; 
The  swans  of  Thames  bewail' d  it, 

With  softer  tones,  with  sweeter  breath, 

Than  ever  charm'd  the  ear  of  death. 

O  Pope  !  hadst  thou,  whose  lyre  so  long 
The  wondering  world  enchanted, 

Amidst  thy  paradise  of  song 

This  Weeping  Willow  planted  ; 

Among  thy  loftiest  laurels  seen, 

In  deathless  verse  for  ever  green, — 

Thy  chosen  Tree  had  stood  sublime, 

The  storms  of  ages  braving, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  wrecks  of  Time 

Its  verdant  banner  waving, 
While  regal  pyramids  decay'd, 
And  empires  perish'd  in  its  shade. 

An  humbler  lot,  O  Tree  !  was  thine, 
■ — Gone  down  in  all  thy  glory  ; 

The  sweet,  the  mournful  task  be  mine, 
To  sing  thy  simple  story  ; 

Though  verse  like  mine  in  vain  would  raise 

The  fame  of  thy  departed  days. 

Yet,  fallen  Willow  !  if  to  me 
Such  power  of  song  were  given, 

My  lips  should  breathe  a  soul  through  thee, 
And  call  down  fire  from  heaven, 

To  kindle  in  this  hallow'd  Urn 

A  flame  that  would  for  ever  burn. 

1S06. 


A    WALK    IN    SPRING.  241 


A  WALK  IN  SPRING. 

I  wander' d  in  a  lonely  glade, 
Where,  issuing  from  the  forest  shade, 

A  little  mountain  stream 
Along  the  winding  valley  play'd, 

Beneath  the  morning  beam. 

Light  o'er  the  woods  of  dark  brown  oak 

The  west-wind  wreathed  the  hovering  smoke, 

From  cottage  roofs  conceal'd, 
Below  a  rock  abruptly  broke, 

In  rosy  light  reveal'd. 

'Twas  in  the  infancy  of  May, — 
The  uplands  glow'd  in  green  array, 

While  from  the  ranging  eye 
The  lessening  landscape  stretch'd  away, 

To  meet  the  bending  sky. 

'Tis  sweet  in  solitude  to  hear 
The  earliest  music  of  the  year, 

The  Blackbird's  loud  wild  note, 
Or,  from  the  wintry  thicket  drear, 

The  Thrush's  stammering  throat. 

In  rustic  solitude  'tis  sweet 

The  earliest  flowers  of  Spring  to  greet, — 

The  violet  from  its  tomb, 
The  strawberry,  creeping  at  our  feet, 

The  sorrel's  simple  bloom. 

Wherefore  I  love  the  walks  of  Spring, — 
While  still  I  hear  new  warblers  sing, 

Fresh-opening  bells  I  see  ; 
Joy  flits  on  every  roving  wing, 

Hope  buds  on  every  tree. 

21 


242  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

That  morn  I  look'd  and  listen'd  long, 
Some  cheering  sight,  some  woodland  song, 

As  yet  unheard,  unseen, 
To  welcome,  with  remembrance  strong 

Of  days  that  once  had  been  ; — 

When  gathering  flowers,  an  eager  child, 
I  ran  abroad  with  rapture  wild ; 

Or,  on  more  curious  quest, 
Peep'd  breathless  through  the  copse,  and  smiled, 

To  see  the  linnet's  nest. 

Already  had  I  watch'd  the  flight 

Of  swallows  darting  through  the  light, 

And  mock'd  the  cuckoo's  call ; 
Already  view'd,  o'er  meadows  bright, 

The  evening  rainbow  fall. 

Now  in  my  walk,  with  sweet  surprise, 
I  saw  the  first  Spring  cowslip  rise, 

The  plant  whose  pensile  flowers 
Bend  to  the  earth  their  beauteous  eyes, 

In  sunshine  as  in  showers. 

Lone  on  a  mossy  bank  it  grew, 

Where  lichens,  purple,  white,  and  blue, 

Among  the  verdure  crept ; 
Its  yellow  ringlets,  dropping  dew, 

The  breezes  lightly  swept. 

A  bee  had  nestled  on  its  blooms, 

He  shook  abroad  their  rich  perfumes, 

Then  fled  in  airy  rings  ; 
His  place  a  butterfly  assumes, 

Glancing  his  glorious  wings. 

Oh,  welcome,  as  a  friend  !  I  cried  ; 
A  friend  through  many  a  season  tried, 

Nor  ever  sought  in  vain, 
When  May,  with  Flora  at  her  side, 

Is  dancing  on  the  plain. 


A    WALK    IN    SPRING.  243 

Sure  as  the  Pleiades  adorn 
The  glittering  coronet  of  morn, 

In  calm  delicious  hours, 
Beneath  their  beams  thy  buds  are  born, 

'Midst  love-awakening  showers. 

Scatter'd  by  Nature's  graceful  hand, 
In  briary  glens,  o'er  pasture-land, 

Thy  fairy  tribes  we  meet ; 
Gay  in  the  milk-maid's  path  they  stand, 

They  kiss  her  tripping  feet. 

From  winter's  farm-yard  bondage  freed, 
The  cattle  bounding  o'er  the  mead, 

Where  green  the  herbage  grows, 
Among  thy  fragrant  blossoms  feed, 

Upon  thy  tufts  repose. 

Tossing  his  forelock  o'er  his  mane, 
The  foal,  at  rest  upon  the  plain, 

Sports  with  thy  flexile  stalk, 
But  stoops  his  little  neck  in  vain 

To  crop  it  in  his  walk. 

Where  thick  thy  primrose  blossoms  play, 
Lovely  and  innocent  as  they, 

O'er  coppice  lawns  and  dells, 
In  bands  the  rural  children  stray, 

To  pluck  thy  nectar'd  bells  ; 

Whose  simple  sweets,  with  curious  skill, 
The  frugal  cottage-dames  distil, 

Nor  envy  France  the  vine, 
While  many  a  festal  cup  they  fill 

With  Britain's  homely  wine. 

Unchanging  still  from  year  to  year, 
Like  stars  returning  in  their  sphere, 

With  undiminish'd  rays, 
Thy  vernal  constellations  cheer 

The  dawn  of  lengthening  days. 


244  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Perhaps  from  Nature's  earliest  May, 
Imperishable  'midst  decay, 

Thy  self-renewing  race 
Have  breathed  their  balmy  lives  away 

In  this  neglected  place. 

And,  oh  !  till  Nature's  final  doom, 
Here  unmolested  may  they  bloom, 

From  scythe  and  plough  secure, 
This  bank  their  cradle  and  their  tomb, 

While  earth  and  skies  endure  ! 

Yet,  lowly  Cowslip,  while  in  thee 
An  old  unalter'd  friend  I  see, 

Fresh  in  perennial  prime  ; 
From  Spring  to  Spring  behold  in  me 

The  woes  and  waste  of  Time. 

This  fading  eye  and  withering  mien 
Tell  what  a  sufferer  I  have  been, 

Since  more  and  more  estranged, 
From  hope  to  hope,  from  scene  to  scene, 

Through  Folly's  wilds  I  ranged. 

Then  fields  and  woods  I  proudly  spurn'd ; 
From  Nature's  maiden  love  I  turn'd, 

And  wooed  the  enchantress  Art ; 
Yet  while  for  her  my  fancy  burn'd, 

Cold  was  my  wretched  heart, — 

Till,  distanced  in  Ambition's  race, 
Weary  of  Pleasure's  joyless  chase, 

My  peace  untimely  slain, 
Sick  of  the  world, 1  turn'd  my  face 

To  fields  and  woods  again. 

'Twas  Spring ; — my  former  haunts  I  found, 
My  favourite  flowers  adorn'd  the  ground, 

My  darling  minstrels  play'd  ; 
The  mountains  were  with  sunset  crown'd, 

The  valleys  dun  with  shade. 


TO    AGNES.  245 


With  lorn  delight  the  scene  I  view'd, 
Past  joys  and  sorrows  were  renew'd  ; 

My  infant  hopes  and  fears 
Look'd  lovely,  through  the  solitude 

Of  retrospective  years. 

And  still,  in  Memory's  twilight  bowers, 
The  spirits  of  departed  hours, 

With  mellowing  tints,  portray 
The  blossoms  of  life's  vernal  flowers 

For  ever  fall'n  away. 

Till  youth's  delirious  dream  is  o'er, 
Sanguine  with  hope,  we  look  before, 

The  future  good  to  find  ; 
In  age  when  error  charms  no  more, 

For  bliss  we  look  behind. 


TO  AGNES. 

REPLY   TO    SOME    LUTES,    BEGIXXIXG    "  ARREST,    O   TIME,    THY    FLEETING 
COURSE." 

Time  will  not  check  his  eager  flight. 

Though  gentle  Agnes  scold, 
For  'tis  the  Sage's  dear  delight 

To  make  young  Ladies  old. 

Then  listen,  Agnes,  friendship  sings  ; 

Seize  fast  his  forelock  gray, 
And  pluck  from  his  careering  wings 

A  feather  every  day. 

Adorn'd  with  these,  defy  his  rage, 

And  bid  him  plough  your  face, 
For  every  furrow  of  old  age 

Shall  be  a  line  of  grace. 

Start  not;  old  age  is  virtue's  prime; 
Most  lovely  she  appears, 

2F 


246  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Clad  in  the  spoils  of  vanquish'd  Time, 
Down  in  the  vale  of  years. 

Beyond  that  vale,  in  boundless  bloom, 
The  eternal  mountains  rise  : 

Virtue  descends  not  to  the  tomb, 
Her  rest  is  in  the  skies. 

1804. 


A  DEED  OF  DARKNESS. 

The  body  of  the  Missionary,  John  Smith,  (who  died  February  6,  1824,  in  prison, 
under  sentence  of  death  by  a  court-martial,  in  Demerara,)  was  ordered  to  be 
buried  secretly  at  night,  and  no  person,  not  even  his  widow,  was  allowed  to 
follow  the  corpse.  Mrs.  Smith,  however,  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Elliott,  accom- 
panied by  a  free  Negro,  carrying  a  lantern,  repaired  beforehand  to  the  spot 
where  a  grave  had  been  dug,  and  there  they  awaited  the  interment,  which 
took  place  accordingly.  His  Majesty's  pardon,  annulling  the  condemnation, 
is  said  to  have  arrived  on  the  day  of  the  unfortunate  Missionary's  death,  from 
the  rigours  of  confinement,  in  a  tropical  climate,  and  under  the  slow  pains  of 
an  inveterate  malady,  previously  afflicting  him. 

Come  down  in  thy  profoundest  gloom, 

Without  one  vagrant  fire-fly's  light, 
Beneath  thine  ebon  arch  entomb 

Earth,  from  the  gaze  of  heaven,  O  Night ! 
A  deed  of  darkness  must  be  done, 
Put  out  the  moon,  hold  back  the  sun. 

Are  these  the  criminals,  that  flee 

Like  deeper  shadows  through  the  shade  ? 

A  flickering  lamp,  from  tree  to  tree 
Betrays  their  path  along  the  glade, 

Led  by  a  Negro  ; — now  they  stand, 

Two  trembling  women,  hand  in  hand. 

A  grave,  an  open  grave,  appears  ; 

O'er  this  in  agony  they  bend, 
Wet  the  fresh  turf  with  bitter  tears  ; 

Sighs  following  sighs  their  bosoms  rend : 
These  are  not  murderers  ! — these  have  known 
Grief  more  bereaving  than  their  own. 


A    DEED    OF    DARKNESS.  217 

Oft  through  the  gloom  their  straining  eyes 

Look  forth,  for  what  they  fear  to  meet : 
It  comes  ;  they  catch  a  glimpse  ;  it  flies  : 

Quick-glancing  lights,  slow-tramping  feet, 
Amidst  the  cane-crops, — seen,  heard,  gone, — 
Return, — and  in  dead-march  move  on. 

A  stern  procession  ! — gleaming  arms, 

And  spectral  countenances  dart, 
By  the  red  torch-flame,  wild  alarms, 

And  withering  pangs  through  either  heart ; 
A  corpse  amidst  the  group  is  borne, 
A  prisoner's  corpse  who  died  last  morn. 

Not  by  the  slave-lord's  justice  slain, 

Who  doom'd  him  to  a  traitor's  death  ; 
While  royal  mercy  sped  in  vain 

O'er  land  and  sea  to  save  his  breath; 
No ;  the  frail  life  that  warm'd  this  clay 
Man  could  not  give  nor  take  away. 

His  vengeance  and  his  grace,  alike, 

Were  impotent  to  spare  or  kill ; 
— He  may  not  lift  the  sword  to  strike, 

Nor  turn  its  edge  aside,  at  will ; 
Here,  by  one  sovereign  act  and  deed, 
God  cancell'd  all  that  man  decreed. 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust, 

That  corpse  is  to  the  grave  consign'd  ; 
The  scene  departs  : — this  buried  trust 

The  Judge  of  quick  and  dead  shall  find, 
When  things  which  Time  and  Death  have  seaFd, 
Shall  be  in  flaming  fire  reveal' d. 

The  fire  shall  try  Thee,  then,  like  gold, 

Prisoner  of  hope  ! — await  the  test : 
And  oh  !  when  truth  alone  is  told, 

Be  thy  clear  innocence  confess'd  ! 
The  fire  shall  try  thy  foes  ; — may  they 
Find  mercy  in  that  dreadful  day. 


218  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  DIAL. 

This  shadow  on  the  Dial's  face, 

That  steals  from  day  to  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 

Moments,  and  months,  and  years  away  ; 
This  shadow,  which,  in  every  clime, 

Since  light  and  motion  first  began, 
Hath  held  its  course  sublime  ; — 

What  is  it  ? Mortal  Man  ! 

It  is  the  scythe  of  Time  : 

— A  shadow  only  to  the  eye  ; 

Yet,  in  its  calm  career, 
It  levels  all  beneath  the  sky  ; 

And  still,  through  each  succeeding  year, 
Right  onward,  with  resistless  power, 
Its  stroke  shall  darken  every  hour, 
Till  Nature's  race  be  run, 
And  Time's  last  shadow  shall  eclipse  the  sun. 

Nor  only  o'er  the  Dial's  face, 

This  silent  phantom,  day  by  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away  ; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls, 
From  TenerifTe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls ; 
For  still,  where'er  a  shadow  sweeps, 

The  scythe  of  Time  destroys, 
And  man  at  every  footstep  weeps 

O'er  evanescent  joys ; 


EMBLEMS.  249 


Like  flow'rets  glittering  with  the  dews  of  morn, 
Fair  for  a  moment,  then  for  ever  shorn  : 
— Ah  !  soon,  beneath  the  inevitable  blow, 
I  too  shall  lie  in  dust  and  darkness  low. 

Then  Time,  the  Conqueror,  will  suspend 

His  scythe,  a  trophy,  o'er  my  tomb, 
Whose  moving  shadow  shall  portend 

Each  frail  beholder's  doom  : 
O'er  the  wide  earth's  illumined  space, 

Though  Time's  triumphant  flight  be  shown, 
The  truest  index  on  its  face 

Points  from  the  churchyard  stone. 

1607. 


EMBLEMS. 


An  evening  cloud,  in  brief  suspense, 

Was  hither  driven  and  thither, 
It  came,  I  saw  not  whence, 

It  went,  I  knew  not  whither ; 
I  watch' d  it  changing,  in  the  wind, 

Size,  semblance,  form,  and  hue, 
Lessening  and  fading,  till  behind 

It  left  no  speck  on  heaven's  pure  blue. 

Amidst  the  marshall'd  host  of  night 
Shone  a  new  star  supremely  bright ; 
With  marvelling  eye,  well  pleased  to  err, 

I  hail'd  that  prodigy  ; — anon, 
It  fell,— it  fell  like  Lucifer, 

A  flash, — a  blaze, — a  train, — 'twas  gone  ; 
And  then  I  sought  in  vain  its  place, 
Throughout  the  infinite  of  space.- 


250  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Dew-drops,  at  day-spring,  deck'd  a  line 

Of  gossamer  so  frail,  so  fine, 

A  gnat's  wing  shook  it : — round  and  clear 

As  if  by  fairy-fingers  strung, 
Like  orient  pearls  at  beauty's  ear, 

In  trembling  brilliancy  they  hung 
Upon  a  rosy  brier,  whose  bloom 
Shed  nectar  round  them,  and  perfume. 

Ere  long  exhaled  in  limpid  air, 

Some  mingled  with  the  breath  of  morn, 

While  some  slid  singly,  here  and  there, 

Like  tears  by  their  own  weight  down  borne ; 

At  length  the  film  itself  collapsed,  and  where 
The  pageant  glitter' d,  lo  !  a  naked  thorn. 
p 

What  are  the  living  ? — hark  !  a  sound 

From  grave  and  cradle  crying, 
By  earth  and  ocean  echoed  round, 
— *'  The  living  are  the  dying!" 

From  infancy  to  utmost  age, 

What  is  man's  scene  of  pilgrimage  ? 

The  passage  to  death's  portal ! 
The  moment  we  begin  to  be, 
We  enter  on  the  agony, 

— The  dead  are  the  immortal ; 
They  live  not  on  expiring  breath, 
They  only  are  exempt  from  death. 

Cloud-atoms,  sparkles  of  a  falling  star, 

Dew-drops  on  gossamer,  all  are  : 

What  can  the  state  beyond  us  be  ? 

Life  ? — Death  ? — Ah  !  no. — a  greater  mystery  ; 

What  thought  hath  not  conceived,  ear  heard,  eye  seen  ; 
Perfect  existence  from  a  point  begun  ; 

Part  of  what  God's  eternity  hath  been, — 
Whole  immortality  belongs  to  none, 
But  Him,  the  First,  the  Last,  the  Only  One, 


A    MESSAGE    FROM    THE    MOON.  251 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MOON: 

A   THOUGHT   AT   EXETER,    DURING   THE    GREAT   ECLIPSE   OF   THE   SUN, 
MAY    15,    1836. 

The  evening  star  peep'd  forth  at  noon, 
To  learn  what  ail'd  the  sun,  her  sire, 

When,  lo  !  the  intervening  moon 

Plunged  her  black  shadow  through  his  fire  ; 

Of  ray  by  ray  his  orb  bereft, 

Till  but  one  slender  curve  was  left, 
And  that  seem'd  trembling  to  expire. 

The  sickening  atmosphere  grew  dim, 

A  faint,  chill  breeze  crept  over  all ; 
As  in  a  swoon,  when  objects  swim 

Away  from  sight, — a  thickening  pall 
Of  horror,  boding  worse  to  come, 
That  struck  both  field  and  city  dumb, 

O'er  man  and  brute  was  felt  to  fall. 

"  Avaunt,  insatiate  fiend  !"  I  cry, — 
"  Like  vampire  stealing  from  its  grave 

To  drain  some  sleeper's  life-strings  dry, 
Back  to  thine  interlunar  cave  ; 

Ere  the  last  glimpse  of  fountain-light, 

Absorpt  by  thee,  bring  on  a  night 

From  which  nor  moon  nor  mom  can  save." 

While  yet  I  spake,  that  single  beam 
(Bent  like  Apollo's  bow  half-strung) 

Broaden'd  and  briirhten'd  ; — gleam  o'er  gleam, 
Splendours  that  out  of  darkness  sprung, 

The  sun's  unveiling  disk  o'erflow'd, 

Till  forth  in  all  his  strength  he  rode, 
For  ever  beautiful  and  young. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Reviving  Nature  own'd  his  power  ; 

And  joy  and  mirth  with  light  and  heat, 
Music  and  fragrance,  hail'd  the  hour 

When  his  deliverance  was  complete  : 
Aloft  again  the  swallow  flew, 
The  cock,  at  second  day-break  crew  ; 

When  suddenly  a  voice  most  sweet ; — 

A  voice,  as  from  the  ethereal  sphere, 
Of  one  unseen  yet  passing  by, 

Came  with  such  rapture  on  mine  ear, 
My  soul  sprang  up  into  my  eye  ; 

But  naught  around  could  I  behold, 

No  "  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould," 
Breathed  that  enchanting  harmony. 

"  How  have  I  wrong'd  thee,  angry  bard  ! 

What  evil  to  your  world  have  done  ? 
That  I,  the  moon,  should  be  debarr'd 

From  free  communion  with  the  sun  1 
If,  while  I  turn'd  on  him  my  face, 
Your's  was  o'ercast  a  little  space, 

Already  are  amends  begun. 

"  The  lustre  I  have  gather'd  now, 

Not  to  myself  I  will  confine  ; 
Night  after  night,  my  crescent  brow, 

My  full  and  waning  globe  shall  shine 
On  yours, — till  every  spark  is  spent, 
Which  for  us  both  to  me  was  lent ; 

— Thus  I  fulfil  the  law  divine. 

"  A  nobler  sun  on  thee  hath  shone, 
On  thee  bestow'd  benigner  light ; 

Walk  in  that  light,  but  not  alone, 
Like  me  to  darkling  eyes  give  sight : 

This  is  the  way  God's  gifts  to  use, 

First  to  enjoy  them,  then  diffuse, 

— Learn  from  the  moon  that  lesson  right." 


A    BRIDAL    BENISON.  233 


A  BRIDAL  BENISON. 

ADDRESSED   TO  MY   FRIENDS   MR.    AND   MRS.  B. 

Ocean  and  land  the  globe  divide, 
Summer  and  winter  share  the  year, 

Darkness  and  light  walk  side  by  side, 
And  earth  and  heaven  are  always  near. 

Though  each  be  good  and  fair  alone, 
And  glorious,  in  its  time  and  place, 

In  all,  when  fitly  pair'd,  is  shown 

More  of  their  Maker's  power  and  grace. 

Then  may  the  union  of  young  hearts, 

So  early  and  so  well  begun, 
Like  sea  and  shore,  in  all  their  parts, 

Appear  as  twain,  but  be  as  one. 

Be  it  like  summer ;  may  they  find 

Bliss,  beauty,  hope,  where'er  they  roam  ; 

Be  it  like  winter,  when  confined, 
Peace,  comfort,  happiness  at  home. 

Like  day  and  night, — sweet  interchange 
Of  care,  enjoyment,  action,  rest ; 

Absence  nor  coldness  e'er  estrange 
Hearts  by  unfailing  love  possest. 

Like  earth's  horizon,  be  their  scene 
Of  life,  a  rich  and  various  ground, 

And,  whether  lowering  or  serene, 
Heaven  all  above  it  and  around. 

When  land  and  ocean,  day  and  night, 
When  time  and  nature  cease  to  be ; 

Let  their  inheritance  be  light, 
Their  union  an  eternity. 


22 


254  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

Those  who  are  apt  to  awake  early  on  spring  mornings  in  rural  neighbourhoods, 
must  often  have  been  charmed  with  the  solitary  song  of  the  Blackbird,  when 
all  beside  is  still,  and  the  Lark  himself  is  yet  on  the  ground. — At  evening,  too, 
his  broad  and  homely  strain,  different  from  that  of  every  other,  and  chiming 
in  at  intervals  with  the  universal  chorus  of  wild  throats,  is  known  from  in- 
fancy by  all  who  have  been  accustomed  to  walk  abroad  in  the  hour  of  twi- 
light.— The  yellow  bill  and  glossy  plumage  of  the  same  conspicuous  bird,  when 
he  flits  from  hedge  to  tree,  or  across  a  meadow,  are  equally  familiar  to  the  eye 
of  such,  nor  less  to  their  ear  is  the  chuckling  note  with  which  he  bolts  out  of 
a  bush  before  the  startled  passenger,  who  has  unconsciously  disturbed  him 
from  his  perch. 

MORNING. 

Golden  bill !  Golden  bill ! 

Lo,  the  peep  of  day  ; 
All  the  air  is  cool  and  still, 
From  the  elm-tree  on  the  hill, 

Chant  away : 
While  the  moon  drops  down  the  west, 
Like  thy  mate  upon  her  nest, 
And  the  stars  before  the  sun, 
Melt  like  snow-flakes,  one  by  one  ; 
Let  thy  loud  and  welcome  lay 
Pour  along 
Few  notes  but  strong. 

EVENING. 

Jet-bright  wing!  jet-bright  wing  ! 

Flit  across  the  sunset  glade; 
Lying  there  in  wait  to  sing — 
Listen  with  thy  head  awry, 
Keeping  time  with  twinkling  eye, 

While  from  all  the  woodland  shade, 
Birds  of  every  plume  and  note 
Strain  the  throat, 
Till  both  hill  and  valley  ring, 
And  the  warbled  minstrelsy, 


THE    MYRTLE.  255 


Ebbing,  flowing  like  the  sea, 
Claims  brief  interludes  from  thee : 
Then,  with  simple  swell  and  fall, 
Breaking  beautiful  through  all, 
Let  thy  Pan-like  pipe  repeat 
Few  notes  but  sweet. 

Jlskern,  near  Doncaster,  1835. 


THE  MYRTLE. 


Dark-green  and  gemm'd  with  flowers  of  snow, 
With  close  uncrowded  branches  spread, 

Not  proudly  high,  nor  meanly  low, 
A  graceful  myrtle  rear'd  its  head. 

Its  mantle  of  unwithering  leaf, 

Seem'd,  in  my  contemplative  mood, 

Like  silent  joy,  or  patient  grief, 
The  symbol  of  pure  gratitude. 

Still  life,  methought,  is  thine,  fair  tree  ! 

— Then  pluck'd  a  sprig,  and  while  I  mused, 
With  idle  hands,  unconsciously, 

The  delicate  small  foliage  bruised. 

Odours,  at  my  rude  touch  set  free, 
Escaped  from  all  their  secret  cells  ; 

Quick  life,  I  cried,  is  thine,  fair  tree  ! 
In  thee  a  soul  of  fragrance  dwells  : 

Which  outrage,  wrongs,  nor  wounds  destroy, 
But  wake  its  sweetness  from  repose  ; 

Ah  !  could  I  thus  heaven's  gifts  employ, 
Worth  seen,  worth  hidden,  thus  disclose : 

In  health,  with  unpretending  grace, 

In  wealth,  with  meekness  and  with  fear, 

Through  every  season  wear  one  face, 
And  be  in  truth  what  I  appear. 


256  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then  should  affliction's  chastening  rod 
Bruise  my  frail  frame,  or  break  my  heart, 

Life,  a  sweet  sacrifice  to  God, 

Out-breathed  like  incense  would  depart. 

The  Captain  of  Salvation  thus, 
When  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 

Was,  by  the  Father's  will,  for  us, 
Himself  through  suffering  purified. 

1837. 


A  DEATH-BED. 

"  So  giveth  He  his  beloved  sleep."— Psalm  cxxvii.  2. 

Her  path  was  like  the  shining  light, 
Clear,  calm,  progressive,  perfect  day  ; 

At  even-tide  came  sudden  night, 
Thick  darkness  fell  on  all  her  way ; 

Amazed,  alarm'd,  she  quail'd  with  dread, 

And  cried — "  The  Comforter  is  fled  !" 

It  was  the  tempter's  vantage-hour ; 

Eager  and  flush' d  with  hope  was  he  ; 
He  knew  the  limit  of  his  power, 

And  struggled  hard  for  victory  ; 
A  deathless  soul,  at  life's  last  gasp, 
Seem'dbut  a  hair's  breadth  from  his  grasp. 

The  dire  deceiver  was  deceived, 
That  soul  was  in  a  faithful  hand, 

Even  his  in  whom  her  heart  believed  ; 
Satan  before  Him  could  not  stand, 

But  fell  like  lightning  to  the  deep, 

So  gave  He  his  beloved  sleep. 


1837. 


DALE    ABBEY.  257 


DALE  ABBEY. 


A  solitary  arch  in  the  middle  of  an  open  meadow,  and  a  small  oratory  more  an- 
cient than  the  monastery  itself,  now  the  chapel  of  ease  for  the  hamlet,  are 
alone  conspicuous  of  all  the  magnificent  structures  which  once  occupied  this 
ground.     The  site  is  about  five  miles  south-east  from  Derby. 


The  glory  halh  departed  from  thee,  Dale  ! 

Thy  gorgeous  pageant  of  monastic  pride, 

— A  power,  that  once  the  power  of  kings  defied, 
Which  truth  and  reason  might  in  vain  assail, 
In  mock  humility  usurp'd  this  vale, 

And  lorded  o'er  the  region  far  and  wide  ; 

Darkness  to  light,  evil  to  good  allied, 
Had  wrought  a  charm,  which  made  all  hearts  to  quail. 

What  gave  that  power  dominion  on  this  ground, 
Age  after  age  ? — the  Word  of  God  was  bound  ! — 

At  length  the  mighty  captive  burst  from  thrall, 
O'ertum'd  the  spiritual  bastile  in  its  march, 
And  left  of  ancient  grandeur  this  sole  arch, 

Whose  stones  cry  out, — "  Thus   Babylon  herself  shall 
fall." 


M   re  b  sautiful  in  ruin  than  in  prime, 

Methinks  this  frail,  yet  firm  memorial  stands, 
The  work  of  heads  laid  low,  and  buried  hands 

— Now  slowly  mouldering  to  the  touch  of  time, 

It  looks  abroad,  unconsciously  sublime, 

Where  sky  above  and  earth  beneath  expands: 
And  yet  a  nobler  relic  still  demands 

The  grateful  homage  of  a  passing  rhyme. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Beneath  the  cliff  yon  humble  roof  behold  ! 
Poor  as  our  Saviour's  birthplace;  yet  a  fold, 

Where  the  good  shepherd,  in  this  quiet  vale, 
Gathers  his  flock,  and  feeds  them,  as  of  old, 

With  bread  from  heaven : — I  change  my  note  ; — all  hail! 

The  glory  of  the  Lord  is  risen  upon  thee,  Dale  !* 

1830. 


IN  BEREAVEMENT. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  afflicted  soul ! 

From  earth  lift  up  thine  eyes ; 
Though  dark  the  evening-shadows  roll, 

And  daylight  beauty  dies, 
One  sun  is  set, — a  thousand  more 

Their  rounds  of  glory  run, 
Where  science  leads  thee  to  explore 

In  every  star  a  sun. 

Thus,  when  some  long-loved  comfort  ends, 

And  Nature  would  despair, 
Faith  to  the  heaven  of  heaven  ascends, 

And  meets  ten  thousand  there  : 
First  faint  and  small,  then  clear  and  bright, 

They  gladden  all  the  gloom, 
As  stars  that  seem  but  points  of  light 

The  rank  of  suns  assume. 


1836. 


*  This  ancient  oratory  is  supposed  to  have  stood  between  700  and  800  years. 
It  was  built  by  a  person  who  had  previously  dwelt  as  a  hermit  in  a  cave  which 
he  had  hewed  in  the  rock  adjacent,  where  he  submitted  to  great  hardships  and 
privations.  He  was  a  native  of  Derby,  and  believed  it  was  the  will  of  heaven, 
that  he  should  leave  his  home  and  friends  and  live  in  solitude.  The  Abbey  was 
founded  in  1204,  near  the  spot  where  this  holy  man  had  thus  lived  and  died.  Af- 
ter being  successively  occupied  by  monks  of  various  orders,  it  was  broken  up  in 
1539.  The  buildings  occupied  a  large  space  of  ground  ;  but  beside  the  arch  and 
chapel  nothing  more  than  a  few  fragments  of  walls  and  foundations  can  be 
traced. 


CORONATION    ODE.  259 


CORONATION  ODE  FOR  QUEEN  VICTORIA. 

The  sceptre  in  a  maiden-hand, 

The  reign  of  beauty  and  of  youth, 
Should  wake  to  gladness  all  the  land. 
Where  love  is  loyalty  and  truth  : 
Rule,  Victoria,  rule  the  free, 
Hearts  and  hands  we  offer  Thee. 

Not  by  the  tyrant  law  of  might, 

But  by  the  grace  of  God  we  own, 
And  by  the  people's  voice,  thy  right 
To  sit  upon  thy  Father's  throne : 
Rule,  Victoria,  rule  the  free, 
Heaven  defend  and  prosper  Thee. 

Thee  isles  and  continents  obey  ; 

Kindreds  and  nations  nigh  and  far, 
Behold  the  bound-marks  of  thy  sway, 
— The  morning  and  the  evening  star: 
Rule,  Victoria,  rule  the  free, 
Millions  rest  their  hopes  on  Thee. 

No  slave  within  thine  empire  breathe  ! 

Before  thy  steps  oppression  fly  ! 
The  lamb  and  lion  play  beneath 
The  meek  dominion  of  thine  eye  ! 
Rule,  Victoria,  rule  the  free, 
Bonds  and  shackles  yield  to  Thee. 

Still  spreading  influence  more  benign, 

Light  to  thy  realms  of  darkness  send, 
Till  none  shall  name  a  ( iod  but  thine, 
None  at  an  idol  altar  bend  : 

Rule,  Victoria,  rule  the  free, 

Till  all  tongues  shall  pray  for  Thee. 


200  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

At  home,  abroad,  by  sea,  on  shore, 

Blessings  to  thee  and  thine  increase ; 
The  sword  and  cannon  rage  no  more, 

The  whole  world  hail  thee  Queen  of  Peace 
Rule,  Victoria,  rule  the  free, 
And  th'  Almighty  rule  o'er  Thee. 


THE  WILD  PINK, 

ON   THE   "WALL   OF   MALMESBURY   ABBEY. 

(Dianthus  Ckeirophyllus.) 

On  seeing  a  solitary  specimen  near  the  Great  Archway,  and  being  told  that  the 
plant  was  not  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  the  neighbourhood. 

The  hand  that  gives  the  angels  wings, 

And  plants  the  forest  by  its  power, 
O'er  mountain,  vale,  and  champaign  flings 

The  seed  of  every  herb  and  flower  ; 
Nor  forests  stand,  nor  angels  fly, 
More  at  God's  will,  more  in  his  eye, 
Than  the  green  blade  strikes  down  its  root, 
Expands  its  bloom,  and  yields  its  fruit. 

Beautiful  daughter  of  a  line 

Of  unrecorded  ancestry  ! 
What  herald's  scroll  could  vie  with  thine, 

Where  monarchs  trace  their  pedigree  ? 
Thy  first  progenitor  had  birth 
While  man  was  yet  unquicken'd  earth, 
And  thy  last  progeny  may  wave 
Its  flag  o'er  man's  last-open'd  grave. 

Down  from  the  day  of  Eden  lost, 

A  generation  in  a  year, 
Unscathed  by  heat,  unnipt  by  frost, 

True  to  the  sovereign  sun,  appear 


THE    WILD    PINK.  261 


The  units  of  thy  transient  race, 
Each  in  its  turn,  each  in  its  place, 
To  make  the  world  a  little  while 
Lovelier  and  sweeter  with  its  smile. 

How  earnest  thou  hither  ?  from  what  soil, 

Where  those  that  went  before  thee  grew, 
Exempt  from  suffering,  care,  and  toil, 

Clad  by  the  sunbeams,  fed  with  dew  ? 
Tell  me  on  what  strange  spot  of  ground 
Thy  rock-born  kindred  yet  are  found, 
And  I  the  carrier-dove  will  be 
To  bring  them  wondrous  news  of  thee. 

How,  here,  by  wren  or  red-breast  dropt, 

Thy  parent-germ  was  left  behind, 
Or,  in  its  trackless  voyage  stopt, 

While  sailing  on  th'  autumnal  wind, 
Not  rudely  wreckt,  but  safely  thrown 
On  yonder  ledge  of  quarried  stone, 
Where  the  blithe  swallow  builds  and  sings, 
And  the  pert  sparrow  pecks  his  wings. 

Then,  by  some  glimpse  of  moonshine  sped, 

Queen  Mab,  methinks,  alighting  there, 
A  span-long,  hand-breadth  terrace  spread, 

A  fairy-garden  hung  in  air, 
Of  lichens,  moss,  and  earthy  mould, 
To  rival  Babylon's  of  old, 
In  which  that  single  seed  she  nurst, 
Till  forth  its  embryo-wilding  burst. 

Now,  like  that  solitary  star, 

Last  in  the  morn's  resplendent  crown, 
Or  first  emerging,  faint  and  far, 

When  evening-glooms  the  sky  embrown, 
Thy  beauty  shines  without  defence, 
Yet  safe  from  gentle  violence, 
While  infant-hands  and  maiden-eyes 
Covet  in  vain  the  tempting  prize. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Yon  arch,  beneath  whose  giant-span, 
Thousands  of  passing  feet  have  trod 

Upon  the  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Gather'd  around  the  house  of  God, 

■ — That  arch  which  seems  to  mock  decay, 

Fix'd  as  the  firmament  to-day, 

Is  fading  like  the  rainbow's  form, 

Through  the  slow  stress  of  time's  long  storm. 

But  thou  mayst  boast  perennial  prime  ; 

— The  blade,  the  stem,  the  bud,  the  flower, 
Not  ruin'd  but  renew'd  by  time, 

Beyond  the  great  destroyer's  power, 
Like  day  and  night,  like  spring  and  fall, 
Alternate,  on  the  abbey  wall, 
May  come  and  go,  from  year  to  year, 
And  vanish  but  to  re-appear. 

Nay,  when  in  utter  wreck  are  strown 

Arch,  buttress,  all  this  mighty  mass, 
Crumbled,  and  crush'd,  and  overgrown 

With  thorns  and  thistles,  reeds  and  grass, 
While  Nature  thus  the  waste  repairs, 
Thine  offspring,  Nature's  endless  heirs, 
Earth's  ravaged  fields  may  re-possess, 
And  plant  once  more  the  wilderness. 

So  be  it : — but  the  sun  is  set, 

My  song  must. end,  and  I  depart ; 
Yet  thee  I  never  will  forget, 

But  bear  thee  in  my  inmost  heart, 
Where  this  shall  thy  memorial  be, 
— If  God  so  cares  for  thine  and  thee, 
How  can  I  doubt  that  love  divine, 
Which  watches  over  me  and  mine  ? 


PARTING    WORDS.  263 


PARTING  WORDS. 

"  And  he  said,  Let  me  go,  for  the  day  breaketh." 

Genesis,  xxxii. 

Let  me  go,  the  day  is  breaking, 

Dear  companions,  let  me  go  ; 
We  have  spent  a  night  of  waking 

In  the  wilderness  below  ; 
Upward  now  I  bend  my  way, 
Part  we  here  at  break  of  day. 

Let  me  go,  I  may  not  tarry, 

Wrestling  thus  with  doubts  and  fears  ; 
Angels  wait  my  soul  to  carry, 

Where  my  risen  Lord  appears  ; 
Friends  and  kindred,  weep  not  so, 
If  ye  love  me,  let  me  go. 
We  have  travell'd  long  together, 

Hand  in  hand,  and  heart  in  heart, 
Both  through  fair  and  stormy  weather, 

And  'tis  hard — 'tis  hard  to  part, 
Yet  we  must : — "  Farewell!"  to  you  ; 
Answer,  one  and  all,  "Adieu I" 
Tis  not  darkness  gathering  round  me, 

Which  withdraws  me  from  your  sight ; 
Walls  of  flesh  no  more  can  bound  me, 

But,  translated  into  light, 
Like  the  lark  on  mounting  wing, 
Though  unseen,  you  hear  me  sing. 

Heaven's  broad  day  hath  o'er  me  broken, 
Far  beyond  earth's  span  of  sky  : 

Am  I  dead  ? — Nay,  by  this  token, 
Know  that  I  have  ceased  to  die  ; 

Would  you  solve  the  mystery, 

Come  up  hither, — come  and  see. 

1837. 


264  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  ROSES. 

ADDRESSED   TO   A   FRIEND    ON   THE   BIRTH   OF  HIS  FIRST   CHILD. 

Two  Roses  on  one  slender  spray- 
In  sweet  communion  grew, 

Together  hailed  the  morning  ray, 
And  drank  the  evening  dew ; 

While  sweetly  wreath'd  in  mossy  green, 
There  sprang  a  little  bud  between. 

Through  clouds  and  sunshine,  storm  and  showers, 

They  open'd  into  bloom, 
Mingling  their  foliage  and  their  flowers, 

Their  beauty  and  perfume  ; 
While  foster' d  on  its  rising  stem, 

The  bud  became  a  purple  gem. 

But  soon  their  summer  splendour  pass'd, 

They  faded  in  the  wind, 
Yet  were  these  roses  to  the  last 

The  loveliest  of  their  kind, 
Whose  crimson  leaves  in  falling  round, 
Adorn'd  and  sanctified  the  ground. 

When  thus  were  all  their  honours  shorn, 

The  bud  unfolding  rose, 
Andblush'd  and  brighten'd,  as  the  morn 

From  dawn  to  sunrise  glows, 
Till  o'er  each  parent's  drooping  head, 
The  daughter's  crowning  glory  spread. 

My  Friends  !  in  youth's  romantic  prime, 

The  golden  age  of  man, 
Like  these  twin  Roses  spend  your  time, 

— Life's  little,  lessening  span  ; 
Then  be  your  breasts  as  free  from  cares, 

Your  hours  as  innocent  as  theirs. 


ELIJAH    IN    THE    WILDERNESS. 


And  in  the  infant  bud  that  blows 

In  your  encircling  arms, 
Mark  the  dear  promise  of  a  rose, 

The  pledge  of  future  charms, 
That  o'er  your  withering  hours  shall  shine, 
Fair,  and  more  fair,  as  you  decline ; — 
Till,  planted  in  that  realm  of  rest 

Where  roses  never  die, 
Amidst  the  gardens  of  the  blest, 

Beneath  a  stormless  sky, 
You  flower  afresh,  like  Aaron's  rod, 
That  blossom'd  at  the  si<rht  of  God. 


ELIJAH  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

1  Kings  xix. 

Thus  pray'd  the  prophet  in  the  wilderness  ; 

"  God  of  my  fathers !  look  on  my  distress ; 

My  days  are  spent  in  vanity  and  strife, 

Oh  that  the  Lord  would  please  to  take  my  life  ! 

Beneath  the  clods  through  this  lone  valley  spread, 

Fain  would  I  join  the  generations  dead  !" 

Heaven  deign'd  no  answer  to  that  murmuring  prayer, 
Silence  that  thrill' d  the  blood  alone  was  there  ; 
Down  sunk  his  weary  limbs,  slow  heaved  his  breath, 
And  sleep  fell  on  him  with  a  weight  like  death  ; 
Dreams,  raised  by  evil  spirits,  hover'd  near, 
Throng' d  with  strange  thoughts,  and  images  of  fear  ; 
Th'  abominations  of  the  Gentiles  came ; — 
Detested  Chemosh,  Moloch  clad  with  flame, 
Ashtaroth,  queen  of  heaven,  with  moony  crest, 
And  Baiil,  sunlike,  high  above  the  rest, 
Glared  on  him,  gnash'd  their  teeth,  then  sped  away, 
Like  ravening  vultures  to  their  carrion-prey, 
Where  every  grove  grew  darker  with  their  rites, 
And  blood  ran  reeking  down  the  mountain-heights  : 

23 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


But  to  the  living  God,  throughout  the  land, 
He  saw  no  altar  blaze,  no  temple  stand  ; 
Jerusalem  was  dust,  and  Zion's  hill, 
Like  Tophet's  valley,  desolate  and  still : 
The  prophet  drew  one  deep  desponding  groan, 
And  his  heart  died  within  him  like  a  stone. 

An  angel's  touch  the  dire  entrancement  broke, 
"Arise  and  eat,  Elijah  !" — He  awoke, 
And  found  a  table  in  the  desert  spread, 
With  water  in  the  cruise  beside  his  head  ; 
He  bless'd  the  Lord,  who  turn'd  away  his  prayer, 
And  feasted  on  the  heaven-provided  fare  ; 
Then  sweeter  slumber  o'er  his  senses  stole, 
And  sunk  like  life  new-breathed  into  his  soul. 
A  dream  brought  David's  city  on  his  sight, 
— Shepherd's  were  watching  o'er  their  flocks  by  night ; 
Around  them  uncreated  splendour  blazed, 
And  heavenly  hosts  their  hallelujah's  raised; 
A  theme  unknown  since  sin  to  death  gave  birth, 
"Glory  to  God!  good  will  and  peace  on  earth!" 
They  sang  ;  his  heart  responded  to  the  strain, 
Though  memory  sought  to  keep  the  words  in  vain : 
The  vision  changed ; — amid  the  gJoom  serene, 
One  star  above  all  other  stars  was  seen, 
It  had  a  light,  a  motion  of  its  own, 
And  o'er  an  humble  shed  in  Bethlehem  shone ; 
He  look'd,  and,  lo  !  an  infant  newly  born, 
That  seem'd  cast  out  to  poverty  and  scorn, 
Yet  Gentile  kings  its  advent  came  to  greet, 
Worshipp'd,  and  laid  their  treasures  at  its  feet. 
Musing  what  this  mysterious  babe  might'  be, 
He  saw  a  sufferer  stretch' d  upon  a  tree  ; 
Yet  while  the  victim  died,  by  men  abhorr'd, 
Creation's  agonies  confess'd  him  Lord. 
Again  the  Angel  smote  the  slumberer's  side  ; 
"Arise  and  eat,  the  way  is  long  and  wide." 
He  rose  and  ate,  and  with  unfainting  force, 
Through  forty  days  and  nights  upheld  his  course. 


ELIJAH    IN    THE    WTLDERNESS.  267 

Horeb,  the  mount  of  God,  he  reach'd,  and  lay- 
Within  a  cavern  till  the  cool  of  day. 
"  What  dost  thou  here,  Elijah  ?" — Like  the  tide, 
Brake  that  deep  voice  through  silence.     He  replied, 
"  I  have  been  very  jealous  for  thy  cause, 
Lord  God  of  hosts  !  for  men  make  void  thy  laws  ; 
Thy  people  have  thrown  down  thine  altars,  slain 
Thy  prophets, — I,  and  I  alone,  remain ; 
My  life  with  reckless  vengeance  they  pursue, 
And  what  can  I  against  a  nation  do  ?" 

"  Stand  on  the  mount  before  the  Lord,  and  know, 
That  wrath  or  mercy  at  my  will  I  show." 
Anon  the  power  that  holds  the  winds  let  fly 
Their  devastating  armies  through  the  sky  ; 
Then  shook  the  wilderness,  the  rocks  were  rent, 
As  when  Jehovah  bow'd  the  firmament, 
And  trembling  Israel,  while  he  gave  the  law, 
Beheld  the  symbols  but  no  image  saw. 
The  storm  retired,  nor  left  a  trace  behind  ; 
The  Lord  pass'd  by  ;  he  came  not  with  the  wind. 

Beneath  the  prophet's  feet  the  shuddering  ground 
Clave,  and  disclosed  a  precipice  profound, 
Like  that  which  open'd  to  the  gates  of  hell, 
When  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram  fell ; 
Again  the  Lord  pass'd  by,  but  unreveal'd ; 
He  came  not  with  the  earthquake, — all  was  seal'd. 

A  new  amazement!  vale  and  mountain  turn'd 
Red  as  the  battle-field  with  blood,  then  burn'd 
Up  to  the  stars,  as  terrible  a  flame 
As  shall  devour  this  universal  frame  ; 
Elijah  watch'd  it  kindle,  spread,  expire ; 
The  Lord  pass'd  by;  he  came  not  with  the  fire. 

A  still  small  whisper  breathed  upon  his  ear; 
He  wrapt  his  mantle  round  his  face  with  fear ; 
Darkness  that  might  be  felt  involved  him, — dumb 
With  expectation  of  a  voice  to  come, 
He  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  the  cave, 
As  one  long  dead,  just  risen  from  the  grave, 


268  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  the  last  judgment. — Came  the  voice  and  cried, 
"  What  dost  thou  here,  Elijah  ?" — He  replied, 
"  I  have  been  very  jealous  for  thy  cause, 
Lord  God  of  hosts  !  for  men  make  void  thy  laws 
Thy  people  have  thrown  down  thine  altars,  slain 
Thy  prophets, — I,  and  I  alone,  remain  ; 
My  life  with  ruthless  violence  they  pursue, 
And  what  can  I  against  a  nation  do?" 

"  My  day  of  vengeance  is  at  hand  :  the  year 
Of  my  redeem'd  shall  suddenly  appear: 
Go  Thou, — anoint  two  kings, — and  in  thy  place, 
A  prophet  to  stand  up  before  my  face  : 
Then  he  who  'scapes  the  Syrian's  sword  shall'fall 
By  his  whom  to  Samaria's  throne  I  call ; 
And  he  who  'scapes  from  Jehu,  in  that  day, 
Him  shall  the  judgment  of  Elisha  slay. 
Yet  hath  a  remnant  been  preserved  by  me, 
Seven  thousand  souls,  who  never  bow'd  the  knee 
To  Baal's  image,  nor  have  kiss'd  his  shrine  ; 
These  are  my  jewels,  and  they  shall  be  mine, 
When  to  the  world  my  righteousness  is  shown, 
And,  root  and  branch,  idolatry  o'erthrown." 

So  be  it,  God  of  truth  !  yet  why  delay  ? 
With  thee  a  thousand  years  are  as  one  day  ; 
O  crown  thy  people's  hopes,  dispel  their  fears  ! 
And  be  to-day  with  Thee  a  thousand  years  ! 
Cut  short  the  evil,  bring  the  blessed  time, 
Avenge  thine  own  elect  from  clime  to  clime ; 
Let  not  an  idol  in  thy  path  be  spared, 
All  share  the  fate  which  Baal  long  hath  shared ; 
Nor  let  seven  thousand  only  worship  Thee  ; 
Make  every  tongue  confess,  bow  every  knee ; 
Now  o'er  the  promised  kingdoms  reign  thy  Son, 
One  Lord  through  all  the  earth, — his  name  be  one ! 
Hast  Thou  not  spoken?  shall  it  not  be  done  ? 

1824. 


THE    REV.    THOMAS    RAWSON    TAYLOR. 


STANZAS 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF 

THE  LATE  REV.  THOMAS  RAWSOiN  TAYLOR, 

OF  BRADFORD,  IN  YORKSHIRE  J 

A  young  minister  of  great  promise,  and  a  poet  of  no  mean  order,  whose  verses, 
entitled  "  Communion  icith  the  Dead,'''  on  the  removal  in  early  life  of  a  sister, 
would  endear  and  perpetuate  the  remembrance  of  both,  were  they  as  generally 
known  as  they  deserve  to  be.  The  survivor  died  on  the  7th  of  March,  1835, 
aged  28  years. 

Millions  of  eyes  have  wept  o'er  frames 

Once  living-,  beautiful,  and  young, 
Now  dust  and  ashes,  and  their  names 

Extinct  on  earth  because  unsung : 
Yet  song  itself  hath  but  its  day, 
Like  the  swan's  dirge, — a  dying  lay. 

A  dying  lay  I  would  rehearse, 

In  memory  of  one  whose  breath 
Pour'd  forth  a  stream  of  such  sweet  verse 

As  might  have  borne  away  from  death 
The  trophy  of  a  sister's  name, 
— Winning  at  once  and  giving  fame. 

But  all  is  mortal  here, — that  song 

Pass'd  like  the  breeze,  which  steals  from  flowers 
Their  fragrance,  yet  repays  the  wrong 

With  dew-drops,  shaken  down  in  showers  ; 
Ah  !  like  those  flowers  with  dew-drops  fed, 
They  sprang,  they  blossom'd,  they  are  dead. 

The  poet  (spared  a  little  while) 

Follow'd  the  sister  all  too  soon  ; 
The  hectic  rose  that  flush' d  his  smile 

Grew  pale  and  wither'd  long  ere  noon ; 
In  youth's  exulting  prime  he  gave 
What  death  demanded  to  the  grave. 


270  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

But  that  which  death  nor  grave  could  seize, — 
His  soul, — into  his  Saviour's  hands 

(Who  by  the  cross's  agonies 

Redeem'd  a  people  from  all  lands) 

He  yielded,  till  "  that  day"*  to  keep, 

And  then,  like  Stephen,  fell  asleep. 

"  That  day"  will  come,  meanwhile  weep  not, 
O  ye  that  loved  him  !  and  yet  more 

Love  him  for  grief  that  "  he  is  not :" 
— Rather  with  joy  let  eyes  run  o'er, 

And  warm  hearts  hope  his  face  to  see, 

Where  'tis  for  ever  "  good  to  be." 


CHRIST  THE  PURIFIER. 

Malachi,  iii.  2,  3. 

He  that  from  dross  would  win  the  precious  ore, 
Bends  o'er  the  crucible  an  earnest  eye, 

The  subtle,  searching  process  to  explore, 

Lest  the  one  brilliant  moment  should  pass  by, 

When  in  the  molten  silver's  virgin  mass, 

He  meets  his  pictured  face  as  in  a  glass. 

Thus  in  God's  furnace  are  his  children  tried ; 

Thrice  happy  they  who  to  the  end  endure ! 
But  who  the  fiery  trial  may  abide  ? 

Who  from  the  crucible  come  forth  so  pure, 
That  He,  whose  eyes  of  flame  look  through  the  whole, 
May  see  his  image  perfect  in  the  soul  ? 

Not  with  an  evanescent  glimpse  alone, 

As  in  that  mirror  the  refiner's  face, 
But,  stampt  with  heaven's  broad  signet,  there  be  shown 

Immanuel's  features,  full  of  truth  and  grace,— 
And  round  that  seal  of  love  this  motto  be, 
"  Not  for  a  moment,  but  eternity  !" 

*  2  Tim.  i.  12. 


A    CERTAIN    DISCIPLE."  271 


"A  CERTAIN  DISCIPLE." 

Acts  Iz.  10. 
ON    THE    PORTRAIT    OF  THE    REV.    W.    M. 

Long  may  his  living  countenance  express 
The  air  and  lineaments  of  holiness, 
And,  as  from  theme  to  theme  his  thoughts  shall  range 
In  high  discourse,  its  answering  aspects  change  ! 
— Like  Abraham's,  faith's  sublimest  pledge  display, 
When  bound  upon  the  altar  Isaac  lay ; 
— Kindle  like  Jacob's,  when  he  felt  his  power 
With  God,  and  wrestled  till  the  day-break  hour ; 
— Shine  like  the  face  of  Moses,  when  he  came, 
All-radiant,  from  the  mount  that  burn'd  with  flame ; 
— Flash  like  Elisha's,  when,  his  sire  in  view, 
He  caught  the  mantle  and  the  spirit  too ; 
— Darken  like  Jonah's,  when  with  "  Wo  !"  he  went 
Through  trembling  Nineveh,  yet  cry  "  Repent !'' 
— Brighten  like  Stephen's,  when  his  foes  amazed, 
As  if  an  angel  stood  before  them,  gazed ; 
And  like  that  martyr's,  at  his  latest  breath, 
Reflect  his  Saviour's  image  full  in  death. 
Yea,  ever  in  the  true  disciple's  mien, 
His  meek  and  lowly  Master  must  be  seen, 
And  in  the  fervent  preacher's  boldest  word, 
That  voice  which  was  the  voice  of  mercy  heard  : 
— So  may  the  love  which  drew,  as  with  a  chain, 
The  Son  of  God  from  heaven,  his  heart  constrain, 
Draw  him  from  earth,  and  fix  his  hopes  above, 
While  with  the  self-same  chain,  that  chain  of  love, 
In  new  captivity,  he  strives  to  bind 
Sin's  ransom'd  slaves,  his  brethren  of  mankind  ; 
Labouring  and  suffering  still,  whate'er  the  cost, 
By  life  or  death,  to  seek  and  save  the  lost ; 


272  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

That,  following  Christ,  in  pure  simplicity, 
As  He  was  in  this  world,  himself  may  be, 
Till,  call'd  with  Him  in  glory  to  sit  down, 
And  with  the  crown  then  given  the  Giver  crown. 

1834. 


THE  COMMUNION  OF  SAINTS. 

John  xvii.  20—23. 

Free,  yet  in  chains  the  mountains  stand, 

The  valleys  link'd  run  hand  in  hand, 

In  fellowship  the  forests  thrive, 

And  streams  from  streams  their  strength  derive. 

The  cattle  graze  in  flocks  and  herds, 
In  choirs  and  concerts  sing  the  birds, 
Insects  by  millions  ply  the  wing, 
And  flowers  in  peaceful  armies  spring. 

All  nature  is  society, 

All  nature's  voices  harmony, 

All  colours  blend  to  form  pure  light, 

— Why  then  should  Christians  not  unite? 

Thus  to  the  Father  pray'd  the  Son, 
"  One  may  they  be  as  We  are  one  ; 
That  I  in  them,  and  Thou  in  Me, 
They  one  with  Us  may  ever  be." 

Children  of  God  !  combine  your  bands, 
Brethren  in  Christ !  join  hearts  and  hands, 
And  pray, — for  so  the  Father  will'd, — 
That  the  Son's  prayer  may  be  fulfill'd : — 

Fulfill'd  in  you,  fulfill'd  in  all 
That  on  the  name  of  Jesus  call, 
And  every  covenant  of  love 
Ye  bind  on  earth,  be  bound  above  ! 


273 


"PERILS  BY  THE  HEATHEN." 

2  Corinthians  xi.  26. 


Lines  in  memory  of  the  Rev.  William  Threlfall,  Wesleyan  Missionary,  who, 
with  two  native  converts,  (Jacob  Links  and  Johannes  Jaggeii,)  set  out  in 
June,  1825,  to  carry  the  gospel  into  great  Namaqua-land,  on  the  western  coast 
of  South  Africa.  The  last  communication  received  from  him  by  his  brethren 
was  the  following  brief  note,  dated  "  Warm  Baths,  August  6,  1825.  Being 
rather  unkindly  handled  by  this  people,  in  their  not  finding  or  not  permitting 
us  to  have  a  guide,  we  returned  hither  yesterday,  after  having  been  to  the 
north  four  days'  journey,  and  losing  one  of  the  oxen.  I  feel  great  need  of  your 
prayers,  and  my  patience  is  much  tried.  These  people  are  very  unfeeling  and 
deceitful ;  but,  thank  God,  we  are  all  in  good  health,  though  we  doubt  of  suc- 
cess. Our  cattle  are  so  poor  that  they  cannot,  I  think,  bring  us  home  again  ; 
but  we  shall  yet  try  to  get  further  ;  and  then  it  is  not  unlikely,  I  shall  despatch 
Johannes  to  you  to  send  oxen  to  fetch  us  away.  Do  not  be  uneasy  about  us; 
we  all  feel  much  comforted  in  our  souls,  and  the  Lord  give  us  patience.  We 
are  obliged  to  beg  hard  to  buy  meat.  Peace  be  with  you  !— William  Threl- 
fall. 

No  further  intelligence  arrived  concerning  the  wanderers  for  seven  months, 
except  unauthorized  rumours,  that  they  had,  in  some  way,  perished  in  the 
desert.  In  the  sequel  it  was  ascertained,  that  Mr.  Threlfall  and  his  faithful 
companions  had  left  the  Warm  Baths  above  mentioned  about  the  9th  or  10th 
of  August,  having  obtained  a  vagabond  guide  to  the  Great  Fish  River.  This 
wretch,  meeting  with  two  others  as  wicked  as  himself,  conducted  them  to  a 
petty  kraal  of  Bushmen,  (the  outcasts  of  all  the  Caffre  tribes,)  and  there  mur- 
dered them  in  the  night  after  they  had  lain  down  to  sleep,  for  the  sake  of  the 
few  trifling  articles  which  they  carried  with  them  for  the  purchase  of  food  by 
the  way.  Two  of  the  assassins  were  long  afterwards  taken  by  some  of  their 
own  wild  countrymen,  and  by  them  delivered  up  to  the  colonial  authorities. 
One  of  these  was  the  arch-traitor,  called  Naangaap,  who  with  his  own  hand 
hurled  the  stone  which  caused  the  death  of  the  missionary.  He  was  tried  at 
Clanwilliam,  and  condemned  to  be  shot.  On  their  way  to  the  place  appointed 
for  execution,  the  escort  halted  at  Lily  Fountain,  where  the  relatives  of  his 
murdered  companion,  Jacob  Links,  resided.  These  came  out  of  their  dwellings 
and  spoke  to  the  criminal  upon  his  awful  situation,  of  which  he  seemed  little 
heedful.  Martha,  Jacob's  sister,  was  especially  concerned  to  awaken  him  to 
a  sense  of  his  guilt  and  peril,  saying  to  him,  with  true  Christian  meekness  and 
sympathy, — "I  am  indeed  very  sorry  for  you,  though  you  have  killed  my  bro- 
ther, because  you  are  indifferent  about  the  salvation  of  your  own  sinful  soul." 
On  the  30th  of  September,  1827,  be  was  shot,  according  to  his  sentence,  In  six 
men  of  his  own  tribe,  at  Silver  Fountain,  fin  the  border  of  the  colony,  with  the 
entire  concurrence  of  the  chief,  who  had  come  from  his  distant  residence  to 
witness  the  execution. 

Mr.  Threlfall  was  a  young  man  who  had  served  on  several  missionary  stations 
in  South  Africa,  from  the  year  1892,  under  great  bodily  affliction  for  the  moel 
part  of  the  time,  but  with  unquenchable  fervency  of  spirit,  and  devotion  to  the 
work  of  God  among  tin:  heathen.  Hie  two  fellow-labourers  and  fellow-suf- 
ferers, Jacob  Links  and  Johannes  Jagger,  had  voluntarily  offered  themselves 


274  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

to  the  same  service  and  sacrifice  with  him,  for  the  sake  of  carrying  the  gospel 
of  the  grace  of  God  to  their  benighted  countrymen  in  the  farther  regions  of 
Namaqua-land. 

Not  by  the  lion's  paw,  the  serpent's  tooth, 

By  sudden  sun-stroke,  or  by  slow  decay, 
War,  famine,  plague, — meek  messenger  of  truth  ! — 

Wert  thou  arrested  on  thy  pilgrim-way. 

The  sultry  whirlwind  spared  thee  in  its  wrath, 
The  lightning  flash'd  before  thee,  and  pass'd  by, 

The  brooding  earthquake  paused  beneath  thy  path, 
The  mountain-torrent  shunn'd  thee,  or  ran  dry. 

Thy  march  was  through  the  savage  wilderness, 
Thine  errand  thither,  like  thy  gracious  Lord's, 

To  seek  and  save  the  lost,  to  heal  and  bless 
Its  blind  and  lame,  diseased  and  dying  hordes. 

How  did  the  love  of  Christ,  that,  like  a  chain, 

Drew  Christ  himself  to  Bethlehem  from  his  throne, 

And  bound  Him  to  the  cross,  thine  heart  constrain, 
Thy  willing  heart,  to  make  that  true  love  known ! 

But  not  to  build,  was  thine  appointed  part, 
Temple  where  temple  never  stood  before  ; 

Yet  was  it  well  the  thought  was  in  thine  heart, 

— Thou  know'st  it  now, — thy  Lord  required  no  more. 

The  wings  of  darkness  round  thy  tent  were  spread, 
The  wild  beast's  howlings  brake  not  thy  repose ; 

The  silent  stars  were  watching  overhead, 

Thy  friends  were  nigh  thee, — nigh  thee  were  thy  foes. 

The  sun  went  down  upon  thine  evening  prayer, 

He  rose  upon  thy  fmish'd  sacrifice  ; 
The  house  of  God,  the  gate  of  heaven,  was  there  ; 

Angels  and  fiends  on  thee  had  fix'd  their  eyes. 

At  midnight,  in  a  moment,  open  stood 
Th'  eternal  doors  to  give  thy  spirit  room ; 

At  morn  the  earth  had  drunk  thy  guiltless  blood, 
— But  where  on  earth  may  now  be  found  thy  tomb  ? 


A    MIDNIGHT    THOUGHT.  275 

At  rest  beneath  the  ever-shifting  sand, 

This  thine  unsculptured  epitaph  remain, 
Till  the  last  trump  shall  summon  sea  and  land, 

"  To  me  to  live  was  Christ ;  to  die  was  gain." 

And  must  with  thee  thy  slain  companions  lie, 
Unmourn'd,  unsung,  forgotten  where  they  fell? 

Oh  !  for  the  spirit  and  power  of  prophecy, 

Their  life,  their  death,  the  fruits  of  both  to  tell ! 

They  took  the  cross,  they  bore  it,  they  lay  down 

Beneath  it,  woke,  and  found  that  cross  their  crown. 

O'er  their  lost  relics,  on  the  spot  where  guilt 
Slew  sleeping  innocence,  and  hid  the  crime, 

A  church  of  Christ,  amidst  the  desert  built, 
May  gather  converts  till  the  end  of  time, 

And  there,  with  them,  their  kindred,  dust  to  dust, 

Await  the  resurrection  of  the  just. 


A  MIDNIGHT  THOUGHT. 

In  a  land  of  strange  delight, 
My  transported  spirit  stray'd  ; 

I  awake  where  all  is  night, 
Silence,  solitude,  and  shade. 

Is  the  dream  of  Nature  flown  ? 

Is  the  universe  destroy'd, 
Man  extinct,  and  I  alone 

Breathing  through  the  formless  void  1 

No  : — my  soul,  in  God  rejoice  ! 

Through  the  gloom  his  light  I  see, 
In  the  silence  hear  his  voice, 

And  his  hand  is  over  me. 

When  I  slumber  in  the  tomb, 
He  will  guard  my  resting-place  : 

Fearless  in  the  day  of  doom 
May  I  stand  before  his  face ! 


27G  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  PEAK  MOUNTAINS : 

IN    TWO    PARTS. 

WRITTEN   AT   BUXTON,    IN   AUGUST,    1812. 


It  may  be  useful  to  remark,  that  the  scenery  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Buxton, 
when  surveyed  from  any  of  the  surrounding  eminences,  consists  chiefly  of 
numerous  and  naked  hills,  of  which  many  are  yet  unenclosed,  and  the  rest 
poorly  cultivated;  the  whole  district,  except  in  the  immediate  precincts  of  the 
Baths  and  the  village  of  Fairfield,  being  miserably  bare  of  both  trees  and  houses. 

PART    I. 

Health  on  these  open  hills  I  seek, 

By  these  delicious  springs,  in  vain : 
The  rose  on  this  deserted  cheek 

Shall  never  bloom  again  ; 
For  youth  is  fled ; — and  less  by  time 

Than  sorrow  torn  away, 
The  pride,  the  strength  of  manhood's  prime, 

Falls  to  decay. 

Restless  and  fluttering  to  expire, 

Life's  vapour  sheds  a  cold  dim  light, 
Frail  as  the  evanescent  fire 

Amidst  the  murky  night, 
That  tempts  the  traveller  from  afar 

To  follow,  o'er  the  heath, 
Its  baleful  and  bewildering  star 

To  snares  of  death. 

A  dreary  torpor  numbs  my  brain ; 

Now  shivering  pale, — now  flush'd  with  heat ; 
Hurried,  then  slow,  from  vein  to  vein 

Unequal  pulses  beat ; 


THE    PEAK    MOUNTAINS.  277 

Quick  palpitations  heave  my  heart, 

Anon  it  seems  to  sink  ; 
Alarm'd  at  sudden  sounds  I  start, 

From  shadows  shrink. 

Bear  me,  my  failing  limbs  !  Oh,  hear 

A  melancholy  sufferer  forth, 
To  breathe  abroad  the  mountain  air 

Fresh  from  the  vigorous  north ; 
To  view  the  prospect,  waste  and  wild, 

Tempestuous  or  serene, 
Still  dear  to  me,  as  to  the  child 

The  mother's  mien. 

Ah  !  who  can  look  on  Nature's  face, 

And  feel  unholy  passions  move  ? 
Her  forms  of  majesty  and  grace 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  : 
Her  frowns  or  smiles  my  woes  disarm, 

Care  and  repining  cease  ; 
Her  terrors  awe,  her  beauties  charm 

My  thoughts  to  peace. 

Already  through  mine  inmost  soul, 

A  deep  tranquillity  I  feel, 
O'er  every  nerve,  with  mild  control, 

Her  consolations  steal ; 
This  fever' d  frame  and  fretful  mind, 

Jarring  midst  doubts  and  fears, 
Are  soothed  to  harmony  : — I  find 

Delight  in  tears. 

I  quit  the  path,  and  track  with  toil 

The  mountains'  unfrequented  maze  ; 
Deep  moss  and  heather  clothe  the  soil, 

And  many  a  spring]  et  plays, 
That  welling  from  its  secret  source 

Down  ragged  dells  is  tost, 
Or  spreads  through  rushy  fens  its  course, 

Silently  lost. 

24 


278  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


The  flocks  and  herds,  that  freely  range 

These  moorlands,  turn  a  jealous  eye, 
As  if  the  form  of  man  were  strange, 

To  watch  me  stealing  by  ; 
The  heifer  stands  aloof  to  gaze, 

The  colt  comes  boldly  on : — 
I  pause, — he  shakes  his  forelock,  neighs, 

Starts,  and  is  gone. 

I  seek  the  valley  : — all  alone 

I  seem  in  this  sequester'd  place  ; 
Not  so  ;  I  meet,  unseen,  yet  known, 

My  Maker  face  to  face  ; 
My  heart  perceives  his  presence  nigh, 

And  hears  his  voice  proclaim, 
While  bright  his  glory  passes  by, 

His  noblest  name. 

LOVE  is  that  name,— for  GOD  is  LOVE  ; 

— Here,  where  unbuilt  by  mortal  hands, 
Mountains  below  and  heaven  above, 

His  awful  temple  stands, 
I  worship : — "  Lord !  though  I  am  dust 

And  ashes  in  thy  sight, 
Be  thou  my  strength  ;  in  Thee  I  trust : 

Be  thou  my  light." 

PART    II. 

Emerging  from  the  cavern' d  glen, 

From  steep  to  steep  I  slowly  climb, 
And  far  above  the  haunts  of  men, 

I  tread  in  air  sublime  : 
Beneath  my  path  the  swallows  sweep  ; 

Yet  higher  craggs  impend, 
And  wild  flowers  from  the  fissures  peep, 

And  rills  descend. 

Now  on  the  ridges  bare  and  bleak, 

Cool  round  my  temples  sighs  the  gale  ; 


THE    PEAK    MOUNTAINS.  279 

Ye  winds  !  that  wander  o'er  the  Peak  ; 

Ye  mountain-spirits  !  hail ! 
Angels  of  health  !  to  man  below 

Ye  bring  celestial  airs  ; 
Bear  back  toTHirn,  from  whom  ye  blow, 

Our  praise  and  prayers. 

Here,  like  the  eagle  from  his  nest, 

I  take  my  proud  and  dizzy  stand ; 
Here,  from  the  cliff's  sublimcst  crest, 

Look  down  upon  the  land : 
Oh  !  for  the  eagle's  eye  to  gaze 

Undazzled  through  this  light ! 
Oh  !  for  the  eagle's  win^s  to  raise 

O'er  all  my  flight. 

The  sun  in  glory  walks  the  sky, 

White  fleecy  clouds  are  floating  round, 
Whose  shapes  along  the  landscape  fly, 

— Here,  chequering  o'er  the  ground ; 
There,  down  the  glens  the  shadows  sweep, 

With  changing  lights  between  ; 
Yonder  they  climb  the  upland  steep, 

Shifting  the  scene. 

Above,  beneath,  immensely  spread, 

Valleys  and  hoary  rocks  I  view, 
Heights  over  heights  exalt  their  head, 

Of  many  a  sombre  hue  ; 
No  waving  woods  their  flanks  adorn, 

No  hedge-rows,  gay  with  trees, 
Encircle  fields,  where  floods  of  corn 

Roll  to  the  breeze. 

My  soul  this  vast  horizon  fills, 

Within  whose  undulated  line 
Thick  stand  the  multitude  of  hills, 

And  clear  the  waters  shine  ; 
Gray  mossy  walls  the  slopes  ascend; 

While  roads,  that  tire  the  eye, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Upward  their  winding  course  extend, 
And  touch  the  sky. 

With  rude  diversity  of  form, 

The  insulated  mountains  tctfrer ; 
— Oft  o'er  these  cliffs  the  transient  storm 

And  partial  darkness  lower, 
While  yonder  summits  far  away 

Shine  sweetly  through  the  gloom, 
Like  glimpses  of  eternal  day 

Beyond  the  tomb. 

Hither,  of  old,  the  Almighty  came  ; 

Clouds  were  his  car,  his  steeds  the  wind 
Before  Him  went  devouring  name, 

And  thunder  roll'd  behind  ; 
At  his  approach  the  mountains  reel'd 

Like  vessels  to  and  fro  ; 
Earth,  heaving  like  a  sea,  reveal'd 

The  gulfs  below. 

Borne  through  the  wilderness  in  wrath, 

He  seem'd  in  power  alone  a  God ; 
But  blessings  follow'd  in  his  path, 

For  Mercy  seized  his  rod ; 
She  smote  the  rock, — and  as  He  pass'd, 

Forth  gush'd  a  living  stream ; 
The  fire,  the  earthquake,  and  the  blast 

Fled  as  a  dream. 

Behold  the  everlasting  hills, 

In  that  convulsion  scatter' d  round  ; 
Hark !  from  their  caves  the  issuing  rills 

With  sweetest  music  sound ; 
Ye  lame  and  impotent !  draw  near ; 

With  healing  on  her  wing, 
The  cherub  Mercy  watches  here 

Her  ancient  spring. 


TO    ANNE    AND    JANE. 


TO  ANN  AND  JANE : 

VERSES   WRITTEN    ON   A    BLANK    LEAF   IN   TIIE   SMALL   VOLUME   OF 

HYMNS  FOR  INFANT  MINDS. 

When  the  shades  of  night  retire 
From  the  morn's  advancing  beams, 
Ere  the  hills  are  tipt  with  fire, 
And  the  radiance  lights  the  streams, 
Lo,  the  lark  begins  her  song, 
Early  on  the  wing,  and  long. 

Summon'd  by  the  signal  notes, 

Soon  her  sisters  quit  the  lawn, 

With  their  wildly  warbling  throats, 

Soaring  in  the  dappled  dawn  ; 

Brighter,  warmer  spread  the  rays,  • 

Louder,  sweeter  swell  their  lays. 

Nestlings,  in  their  grassy  beds, 
Hearkening  to  the  joyful  sound, 
Heavenward  point  their  little  heads, 
Lowly  twittering  from  the  ground, 
Ere  their  wings  are  fledged  to  fly, 
To  the  chorus  in  the  sky. 

Thus,  fair  Minstrels,  while  ye  sing, 
Teaching  infant  minds  to  raise 
To  the  universal  King 
Humble  hymns  of  prayer  and  praise. 
O  may  all  who  hear  your  voice 
Look,  and  listen,  and  rejoice  ! 

Faltering  like  the  skylark's  young, 
While  your  numbers  they  record, 
Soon  may  every  heart  and  tongue 
Learn  to  magnify  the  Lord  ; 
And  your  strains  divinely  sweet, 
Unborn  millions  thus  repeat. 

1 1  ~= 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Minstrels !  what  reward  is  due 
For  this  labour  of  your  love  ? 
— Through  eternity  may  You, 
In  the  Paradise  above, 
Round  the  dear  Redeemer's  feet, 
All  your  infant  readers  meet ! 


TRANSMIGRATIONS. 


A  hail-stone,  from  the  cloud  set  free, 

Shot,  slanting  coastward,  o'er  the  sea, 

And  thus,  as  eastern  tales  relate, 

Lamented  its  untimely  fate  : 

"  Last  moment  born,  condemn'd  in  this, 

The  next  absorpt  in  yon  abyss  ; 

'Twere  better  ne'er  to  know  the  light, 

Than  see  and  perish  at  first  sight." 

— An  oyster  heard,  and  as  it  fell, 

Welcomed  the  outcast  to  her  shell, 

Where  meekly  suffering  that  "  sea-change," 

It  grew  to  "  something  rich  and  strange," 

And  thence  became  the  brightest  gem 

That  decks  the  Sultan's  diadem, 

Turn'd  from  a  particle  of  ice 

Into  a  pearl  of  priceless  price. 

— Thus  can  the  power  that  rules  o'er  all 

Exalt  the  humble  by  their  fall. 

A  dew-drop,  in  the  flush  of  morn, 
Sparkled  upon  a  blossom'd  thorn, 
Reflecting  from  its  mirror  pure 
The  sun  himself  in  miniature. 
Dancing  for  gladness  on  the  spra}^ 
It  miss'd  its  hold,  and  slid  away ; 
A  lark,  just  mounting  up  to  sing, 
Caught  the  frail  trembler  on  its  wing, 


TRANSMIGRATIONS. 


But,  borne  aloft  through  gathering  clouds, 
Left  it  entangled  with  their  shrouds: 
Lost,  and  for  ever  lost,  it  seem'd, 
When  suddenly  the  sun  forth  gleam'd, 
And  round  the  showery  vapours  threw 
A  rainbow, — where  our  drop  of  dew 
Midst  the  prismatic  hues  of  heaven 
Outshone  the  beams  of  all  the  seven. 
When  virtue  falls,  'tis  not  to  die, 
But  be  translated  to  the  sky. 

A  babe  into  existence  came, 
A  feeble,  helpless,  suffering  frame  ; 
It  breathed  on  earth  a  little  while, 
Then  vanish'd,  like  a  tear,  a  smile, 
That  springs  and  falls, — that  peers  and  parts, 
The  grief,  the  joy  of  loving  hearts  ; 
The  grave  received  the  body  dead 
Where  all  that  live  must  find  their  bed. 
Sank  then  the  soul  to  dust  and  gloom, 
Worms  and  corruption  in  the  tomb  ? 
No, — midst  the  rainbow  round  the  throne, 
Caught  up  to  paradise,  it  shone, 
And  yet  shall  shine,  until  the  day 
When  heaven  and  earth  must  pass  away, 
And  those  that  sleep  in  Jesus  here, 
With  him  in  glory  shall  appear. 
Then  shall  that  soul  and  body  meet ; 
And  when  his  jewels  are  complete, 
Midst  countless  millions,  form  a  gem 
In  the  Redeemer's  diadem, 
Wherewith  as  thorns  his  brows  once  bound, 
He  for  his  sufferings  shall  be  crown'd  ; 
Raised  from  the  ignominious  tree 
To  the  right-hand  of  Majesty, 
1  lead  over  all  created  things, 
The  Lord  of  lords,  the  King  of  kings. 

1839. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


CHATTERTON. 

Stanzas  on  reading  the  Verses  entitled  "Resignation,"  written  by  Chattcrton, 
a  few  days  before  his  melancholy  end. 

A  dying  swan  of  Pindus  sings 

In  wildly  mournful  strains  ; 
As  Death's  cold  fingers  snap  the  strings, 

His  suffering  lyre  complains. 

Soft  as  the  mist  of  evening  wends 

Along  the  shadowy  vale  ; 
Sad  as  in  storms  the  moon  ascends, 

And  turns  the  darkness  pale  ; 

So  soft  the  melting  numbers  flow 

From  his  harmonious  lips  ; 
So  sad  his  wo-wan  features  show, 

Just  fading  in  eclipse. 

The  Bard,  to  dark  despair  resign'd, 

With  his  expiring  art, 
Sings,  midst  the  tempest  of  his  mind, 

The  shipwreck  of  his  heart. 

If  Hope  still  seem  to  linger  nigh, 

And  hover  o'er  his  head, 
Her  pinions  are  too  weak  to  fly, 

Or  Hope  ere  now  had  fled. 

Rash  Minstrel !  who  can  hear  thy  songs, 

Nor  long  to  share  thy  fire  ? 
Who  read  thine  errors  and  thy  wrongs, 

Nor  execrate  the  lyre  ? 

The  lyre,  that  sunk  thee  to  the  grave, 
When  bursting  into  bloom, 


A  DAUGHTER  (c.  M.)  TO  HER  MOTHER.        285 


That  lyre  the  power  to  Genius  gave 
To  blossom  in  the  tomb. 

Yes  ; — till  his  memory  fail  with  years, 
Shall  Time  thy  strains  recite  ; 

And  while  thy  story  swells  his  tears, 
Thy  song  shall  charm  his  flight. 


1502. 


A  DAUGHTER  (C.  M.)  TO  HER  MOTHER, 

ON    HER    BIRTH-DAY,    NOVEMBER   25,    1811. 

This  the  day  to  me  most  dear 
In  the  changes  of  the  year  ; 
Spring,  the  fields  and  woods  adorning, 
Spring  may  boast  a  gayer  morning ; 
Summer  noon,  with  brighter  beams, 
Gild  the  mountains  and  the  streams  ; 
Autumn,  through  the  twilight  vale, 
Breathe  a  more  delicious  gale  : 
Yet  though  stern  November  reigns 
Wild  and  wintry  o'er  the  plains, 
Never  does  the  morning  rise 
Half  so  welcome  to  mine  eyes  ; 
Noontide  glories  never  shed 
Rays  so  beauteous  round  my  head ; 
Never  looks  the  evening  scene 
So  enchantingly  serene, 
As  on  this  returning  day, 
When,  in  spirit  rapt  away, 
Joys  and  sorrows  I  have  known, 
In  the  years  for  ever  flown, 
Wake  at  every  sound  and  sight, 
Reminiscence  of  delight : 
All  around  me,  all  above, 
Witnessing  a  Mother's  love. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Love,  that  watch' d  my  early  years 
With  conflicting  hopes  and  fears  ; 
Love,  that  through  life's  flowery  May 
Led  my  childhood,  prone  to  stray  ; 
Love,  that  still  directs  my  youth 
With  the  constancy  of  Truth, 
Heightens  every  bliss  it  shares, 
Softens  and  divides  the  cares, 
Smiles  away  my  light  distress, 
Weeps  for  joy,  or  tenderness  : 
— May  that  love,  to  latest  age, 
Cheer  my  earthly  pilgrimage  ; 
May  that  love,  o'er  death  victorious, 
Rise  beyond  the  grave  more  glorious  ; 
Souls,  united  here,  would  be 
One  to  all  eternity. 

When  these  eyes,  from  native  night, 
First  unfolded  to  the  light, 
On  what  object,  fair  and  new, 
Did  they  fix  their  fondest  view  ? 
On  my  Mother's  smiling  mien  ; 
All  the  mother  there  was  seen. 
When  their  weary  lids  would  close, 
And  she  sang  me  to  repose, 
Found  I  not  the  sweetest  rest 
On  my  Mother's  peaceful  breast  ? 
When  my  tongue  from  hers  had  caught 
Sounds  to  utter  infant  thought, 
Readiest  then  what  accents  came  ? 
Those  that  meant  my  Mother's  name. 
When  my  timid  feet  begun, 
Strangely  pleased,  to  stand  or  run, 
'Twas  my  Mother's  voice  and  eye 
Most  encouraged  me  to  try, 
Safe  to  run,  and  strong  to  stand, 
Holding  by  her  gentle  hand. 

Time  since  then  hath  deeper  made 
Lines,  where  youthful  dimples  play'd, 


A  DAUGHTER  (c.  M.)  TO  HER  MOTHER.       287 

Yet  to  me  my  Mother's  face 
Wears  a  more  angelic  grace  ; 
And  her  tresses,  thin  and  hoary, 
Are  they  not  a  crown  of  glory  ? 
—Cruel  griefs  have  wrung  that  bieast, 
Once  my  Paradise  of  rest ; 
While  in  these  I  bear  a  part, 
Warmer  grows  my  Mother's  heart, 
Closer  our  affections  twine, 
Mine  with  hers,  and  hers  with  mine. 
—Many  a  name,  since  hers  I  knew, 
Have  I  loved  with  honour  due, 
But  no  name  shall  be  more  dear 
Than  my  Mother's  to  mine  ear. 
— Many  a  hand  that  Friendship  plighted, 
Have  I  clasp'd  with  all  delighted, 
But  more  faithful  none  can  be 
Than  my  Mother's  hand  to  me. 
Thus  by  every  tie  endear'd, 
Thus  with  filial  reverence  fear'd, 
Mother  !  on  this  day  'tis  meet 
That,  with  salutation  sweet, 
I  should  wish  you  years  of  health, 
Worldly  happiness  and  wealth, 
And  when  good  old  age  is  past, 
Heaven's  eternal  peace  at  last ! 
But  with  these  I  frame  a  vow 
For  a  double  blessing  now  ; 
One,  that  richly  shall  combine 
Your  felicity  with  mine  ; 
One,  in  which  with  soul  and  voice, 
Both  together  may  rejoice  ; 
Oh  !  what  shall  that  blessing  be  ? 
— Dearest  Mother  !  may  you  see 
All  your  prayers  fulfill' d  for  me  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ON  FINDING  THE  FEATHERS  OF  A  LINNET 

SCATTERED    ON   THE   GROUND   IN   A   SOLITARY   WALK. 

These  little  relics,  hapless  bird ! 

That  strew  the  lonely  vale, 
With  silent  eloquence  record 

Thy  melancholy  tale. 

Like  Autumn's  leaves,  that  rustle  round 

From  every  withering-  tree, 
These  plumes,  dishevell'd  o'er  the  ground, 

Alone  remain  of  thee. 

Some  hovering  kite's  rapacious  maw 

Hath  been  thy  timeless  grave  : 
No  pitying  eye  thy  murder  saw, 

No  friend  appear' d  to  save. 

Heaven's  thunder  smite  the  guilty  foe  ! 

No  : — spare  the  tyrant's  breath, 
Till  wintry  winds,  and  famine  slow, 

Avenge  thy  cruel  death  ! 

But  every  feather  of  thy  wing 

Be  quicken' d  where  it  lies, 
And  at  the  soft  return  of  spring, 

A  fragrant  cowslip  rise  ! 

Few  were  thy  days,  thy  pleasures  few, 

Simple  and  unconfined  ; 
On  sunbeams  every  moment  new, 

Nor  left  a  care  behind. 

In  spring  to  build  thy  curious  nest, 

And  woo  thy  merry  bride, 
Carol  and  fly,  and  sport  and  rest, 

Was  all  thy  humble  pride. 

Happy  beyond  the  lot  of  kings, 
Thy  bosom  knew  no  smart, 


THE    LINNET. 


Till  the  last  pang,  that  tore  the  strings 
From  thy  dissever'd  heart. 

When  late  to  secret  griefs  a  prey. 

I  wander' d  slowly  here, 
Wild  from  the  copse  an  artless  lay, 

Like  magic,  won  mine  ear. 

Perhaps  'twas  thy  last  evening  song, 

That  exquisitely  stole 
In  sweetest  melody  along, 

And  harmonized  my  soul. 

Now,  blithe  musician  !  now  no  more, 

Thy  mellow  pipe  resounds, 
But  jarring  drums  at  distance  roar, 

And  yonder  howl  the  hounds  : 

The  hounds  that  through  the  echoing  wood 

The  panting  hare  pursue  ; 
The  drums,  that  wake  the  cry  of  blood, 

The  voice  of  Glory  too ! 

Here  at  my  feet  thy  frail  remains, 

Unwept,  unburied,  lie, 
Like  victims  on  embattled  plains, 

Forsaken  where  they  die. 

Yet  could  the  muse  whose  strains  rehearse 

Thine  unregarded  doom, 
Enshrine  thee  in  immortal  verse, 

Kings  should  not  scorn  thy  tomb. 

Though  brief  as  thine  my  tuneful  date, 
When  wandering  near  this  spot, 

The  sad  memorials  of  thy  fate 
Shall  never  be  fonrot. 

o 

While  doom'd  the  lingering  pangs  to  feel 

Of  many  a  nameless  fear, 
One  truant  sigh  from  these  I'll  steal, 

And  drop  one  willing  tear. 


1796. 


25 


290  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


OCCASIONAL  ODE 

FOR   THE    ANNIVERSARY    OF    THE    ROYAL    BRITISH    SYSTEM    OF 
EDUCATION, 

HELD   AT  FREEMASON'S   HALL,    MAY    16,    1812. 

The  lion,  o'er  his  wild  domains, 

Rules  with  the  terror  of  his  eye ; 
The  eagle  of  the  rock  maintains 

By  force  his  empire  in  the  sky ; 
The  shark,  the  tyrant  of  the  flood, 

Reigns  through  the  deep  with  quenchless  rage  : 
Parent  and  young,  unwean'd  from  blood, 

Are  still  the  same  from  age  to  age. 

Of  all  that  live,  and  move,  and  breathe, 

Man  only  rises  o'er  his  birth  ; 
He  looks  above,  around,  beneath, 

At  once  the  heir  of  heaven  and  earth : 
Force,  cunning,  speed,  which  Nature  gave 

The  various  tribes  throughout  her  plan, 
Life  to  enjoy,  from  death  to  save, — 

These  are  the  lowest  powers  of  Man. 

From  strength  to  strength  he  travels  on : 

He  leaves  the  lingering  brute  behind; 
And  when  a  few  short  years  are  gone, 

He  soars,  a  disembodied  mind  : 
Beyond  the  grave,  his  course  sublime 

Destined  through  nobler  paths  to  run, 
In  his  career  the  end  of  Time 

Is  but  Eternity  begun. 

What  guides  him  in  his  high  pursuit, 

Opens,  illumines,  cheers  his  way, 
Discerns  the  immortal  from  the  brute, 

God's  image  from  the  mould  of  clay  ? 


DEPARTED    DAYS. 


'Tis  knowledge  : — Knowledge  to  the  soul 
Is  power,  and  liberty,  and  peace ; 

And  while  celestial  ages  roll, 

The  joys  of  Knowledge  shall  increase. 

Hail !  to  the  glorious  plan,  that  spread 

The  light  with  universal  beams, 
And  through  the  human  desert  led 

Truth's  living,  pure,  perpetual  streams, 
— Behold  a  new  creation  rise, 

New  spirit  breathed  into  the  clod, 
Where'er  the  voice  of  Wisdom  cries, 

"  Man,  know  thyself,  and  fear  thy  God." 


DEPARTED  DAYS  : 

A   RHAPSODY. 


WRITTEN   ON    VISITING   FULNECK,    IN   YORKSHIRE,    WHERE  THE   AUTHOR 
WAS    EDUCATED,    IN   THE   SPRING   OF    1806. 

Days  of  my  childhood,  hail ! 
Whose  gentle  spirits  wandering  here, 
Down  in  the  visionary  vale, 
Before  mine  eyes  appear, 
Benignly  pensive,  beautifully  pale  ; 
O  days  for  ever  fled,  for  ever  dear, 
Days  of  my  childhood,  hail ! 

Joys  of  my  early  hours  ! 

The  swallows  on  the  wing, 

The  bees  among  the  flowers, 

The  butterflies  of  spring, 

Light  as  their  lovely  moments  flew, 
Were  not  more  gay,  more  innocent  than  you : 

And  fugitive  as  they, 

Like  butterflies  in  spring, 

Like  bees  among  the  flowers, 

Like  swallows  on  the  wing, 
How  swift,  how  soon  ye  pass'd  away, 

Joys  of  my  early  hours ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


The  loud  Atlantic  ocean, 

On  Scotland's  rugged  breast, 

Rocks,  with  harmonious  motion., 

His  weary  waves  to  rest, 

And  gleaming  round  her  emerald  isles, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  sunset  smiles. 

On  that  romantic  shore 

My  parents  haiPd  their  first-born  boy  : 

A  mother's  pangs  my  mother  bore, 

My  father  felt  a  father's  joy  : 

My  father,  mother, — parents  now  no  more  : 

Beneath  the  Lion-Star  they  sleep, 

Beyond  the  western  deep, 
And  when  the  sun's  noon-glory  crests  the  waves, 
He  shines  without  a  shadow  on  their  graves. 

Sweet  seas,  and  smiling  shores  ! 

When  no  tornado-demon  roars, 

Resembling  that  celestial  clime 

Where,  with  the  spirits  of  the  blest, 

Beyond  the  hurricanes  of  Time, 

From  all  their  toils  my  parents  rest ; 

Their  skies,  eternally  serene, 

Diffuse  ambrosial  balm 

Through  sylvan  isles  for  ever  green, 

O'er  seas  for  ever  calm  ; 
While  saints  and  angels,  kindling  in  his  rays, 
On  the  full  glory  of  the  Godhead  gaze, 
And  taste  and  prove,  in  that  transporting  sight, 
Joy  without  sorrow,  without  darkness  light. 

Light  without  darkness,  without  sorrow  joy, 
On  earth  are  all  unknown  to  man ; 
Here,  while  I  roved,  a  heedless  boy, 
Here,  while  through  paths  of  peace  I  ran, 
My  feet  were  vex'd  with  puny  snares, 
My  bosom  stung  with  insect-cares  : 
Bat  ah  !  what  light  and  little  things 
Are  childhood's  woes  ! — they  break  no  rest ; 


DEPARTED  DAYS. 


Like  dew-drops  on  the  skylark's  wings, 
While  slumbering  in  his  grassy  nest, 
Gone  in  a  moment  when  he  springs 
To  meet  the  morn  with  open  breast, 
As  o'er  the  eastern  hills  her  banners  glow, 
And  veil'd  in  mist  the  valley  sleeps  below. 

Like  him  on  these  delightful  plains, 
I  taught,  with  fearless  voice, 
The  echoing  woods  to  sound  my  strains, 
The  mountains  to  rejoice, 
Hail !  to  the  trees  beneath  whose  shade, 
Rapt  into  worlds  unseen  I  stray'd  ; 
Hail !  to  the  stream  that  purl'd  along 
In  hoarse  accordance  to  my  song ; 
My  song  that  pour'd  uncensured  lays, 
Tuned  to  a  dying  Saviour's  praise, 
In  numbers  simple,  wild,  and  sweet, 
As  were  the  flowers  beneath  my  feet ; — 
Those  flowers  are  dead, 
Those  numbers  fled, 
Yet  o'er  my  secret  thought, 
From  cold  Oblivion's  silent  gloom, 
Their  music  to  mine  ear  is  brought, 
Like  voices  from  the  tomb. 
And  yet  in  this  untainted  breast 
No  baleful  passion  burn'd, 
Ambition  had  not  banish'd  rest, 
Nor  hope  had  earthward  turn'd  ; 
Proud  Reason  still  in  shadow  lay, 
And  in  my  firmament  alone, 
Forerunner  of  the  day, 
The  dazzling  star  of  wonder  shone, 
By  whose  enchanting  ray 
Creation  open'd  on  my  earliest  view, 
And  all  was  beautiful,  for  all  was  new. 

Too  soon  my  mind's  awakening  powers 
Made  the  light  slumbers  flee, 


25< 


294  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then  vanish'd  with  the  golden  hours, 

The  morning  dreams  of  Infancy  ; 
Sweet  were  those  slumbers,  dear  those  dreams  to  me ; 
And  yet  to  mournful  memory  lingering  here, 
Sweet  are  those  slumbers,  and  those  dreams  are  dear : 
For  hither,  from  my  native  clime, 
The  hand  that  leads  Orion  forth, 
And  wheels  Arcturus  round  the  north, 
Brought  me,  in  Life's  exulting  prime  : 
— Blest  be  that  hand! — Whether  it  shed 
Mercies  or  judgments  on  my  head, 
Extend  the  sceptre  or  exalt  the  rod,— 
Blest  be  that  hand  !— It  is  the  hand  of  GOD.1 


THE  BIBLE. 


What  is  the  world  ! — A  wildering  maze, 
Where  sin  hath  track' d  ten  thousand  ways, 

Her  victims  to  ensnare  ; 
AJ1  broad,  and  winding,  and  aslope, 
All  tempting  with  perfidious  hope, 

All  ending  in  despair. 

Millions  of  pilgrims  throng  those  roads, 
Bearing  their  baubles,  or  their  loads, 

Down  to  eternal  night ; 
— One  humble  path,  that  never  bends, 
Narrow,  and  rough,  and  steep,  ascends 

From  darkness  into  light. 


i&j 


Is  there  a  Guide  to  show  that  path  ? 
The  Bible  : — He  alone,  who  hath 

The  Bible,  need  not  stray : 
Yet  he  who  hath,  and  will  not  give 
That  heavenly  Guide  to  all  that  live, 

Himself  shall  lose  the  way. 


THE    WILD    ROSE.  295 


THE  WILD  ROSE : 

ON    PLUCKING   ONE   LATE   IN   THE   MONTH   OF   OCTOBER. 

Thou  last  pale  promise  of  the  waning  year, 

Poor  sickly  Rose  !  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

Why,  frail  flower  !  so  late  a  comer, 

Hast  thou  slept  away  the  summer  ? 

Since  now,  in  Autumn's  sullen  reign, 

When  ev'ry  breeze 

Unrobes  the  trees, 

And  strews  their  annual  garments  on  the  plain, 

Awaking  from  repose, 

Thy  fairy  lids  unclose. 

Feeble,  evanescent  flower, 
Smile  away  thy  sunless  hour ; 
Every  daisy,  in  my  walk, 
Scorns  thee  from  its  humbler  stalk : 
Nothing  but  thy  form  discloses 
Thy  descent  from  royal  roses  : 
How  thine  ancestors  would  blush 
To  behold  thee  on  their  bush, 
Drooping  thy  dejected  head 
Where  their  bolder  blossoms  spread ; 
Withering  in  the  frosty  gale, 
Where  their  fragrance  filPd  the  vale. 

Last  and  meanest  of  thy  race, 
Void  of  beauty,  colour,  grace, 
No  bee  delighted  sips 
Ambrosia  from  thy  lips  ; 
No  spangling  dew-drops  gem 
Thy  fine  elastic  stem  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


No  living  lustre  glistens  o'er  thy  bloom, 

Thy  sprigs  no  verdant  leaves  adorn, 

Thy  bosom  breathes  no  exquisite  perfume ; 

But  pale  thy  countenance  as  snow, 

While,  unconceal'd  below, 

All  naked  glares  the  threatening  thorn. 

Around  thy  bell,  o'er  mildew'd  leaves, 
His  ample  web  a  spider  weaves ; 
A  wily  ruffian,  gaunt  and  grim, 
His  labyrinthine  toils  he  spreads 
Pensile  and  light ; — their  glossy  threads 
Bestrew'd  with  many  a  wing  and  limb ; 
Even  in  thy  chalice  he  prepares 
His  deadly  poison  and  delusive  snares. 

While  I  pause,  a  vagrant  fly 
Giddily  comes  buzzing  by  ; 
Round  and  round,  on  viewless  wings, 
Lo  !  the  insect  wheels  and  sings  : 
Closely  couch'd,  the  fiend  discovers, 
Sets  him  with  his  sevenfold  eyes, 
And,  while  o'er  the  verge  he  hovers, 
Seems  to  fascinate  his  prize, 
As  the  snake's  magnetic  glare 
Charms  the  flitting  tribes  of  air, 
Till  the  dire  enchantment  draws 
Destined  victims  to  his  jaws. 
Now  midst  kindred  corses  mangled, 
On  his  feet  alights  the  fly ; 
Ah  !  he  feels  himself  entangled, 
Hark  !  he  pours  a  piteous  cry. 
Swift  as  Death's  own  arrows  dart, 
On  his  prey  the  spider  springs, 
Wounds  his  side, — with  dexterous  art 
Winds  the  web  about  his  wings ; 
Quick  as  he  came,  recoiling  then, 
The  villain  vanishes  into  his  den. 


THE    WILD    ROSE.  297 


The  desperate  fly  perceives  too  late 
The  hastening  crisis  of  his  fate  ; 
Disaster  crowds  upon  disaster, 
And  every  struggle  to  get  free 
Snaps  the  hopes  of  liberty, 
And  draws  the  knots  of  bondage  faster. 

Again  the  spider  glides  along  the  line  ; 
Hold,  murderer  !  hold  ; — the  game  is  mine. 
— Captive  !  unwarn'd  by  danger,  go, 
Frolic  awhile  in  light  and  air ; 
Thy  fate  'tis  easy  to  foreshow, 

Preserved to  perish  in  a  safer  snare  ! 

Spider  !  thy  worthless  life  I  spare  ; 

Advice  on  thee  'twere  vain  to  spend, 

Thy  wicked  ways  thou  wilt  not  mend,— - 

Then  haste  thee,  spoiler,  mend  thy  net ; 

Wiser  than  I 

Must  be  yon  fly, 

If  he  escapes  thy  trammels  yet ; 

Most  eagerly  the  trap  is  sought 

In  which  a  fool  has  once  been  caught. 

And  thou,  poor  Rose  !  whose  livid  leaves  expand, 

Cold  to  the  sun,  untempting  to  the  hand, 

Bloom  unadmired, — uninjured  die  ; 

Thine  aspect,  squalid  and  forlorn, 

Insures  thy  peaceful,  dull  decay  ; 

Hadst  thou  with  blushes  hid  thy  thorn, 

Grown  "  sweet  to  sense  and  lovely  to  the  eye," 

I  might  have  pluck'd  thy  flower, 

Worn  it  an  hour, 

"  Then  cast  it  like  a  loathsome  weed  away."* 


Otway's  Orphan. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  TIME-PIECE. 

Who  is  He,  so  swiftly  flying, 
His  career  no  eye  can  see  ? 

Who  are  Thetf,  so  early  dying, 
From  their  birth  they  cease  to  be  ? 

Time  : — behold  his  pictured  face  ! 

Moments  : — can  you  count  their  race  ? 

Though,  with  aspect  deep-dissembling, 
Here  he  feigns  unconscious  sleep, 

Round  and  round  this  circle  trembling, 
Day  and  night  his  symbols  creep, 

While  unseen,  through  earth  and  sky, 

His  unwearying  pinions  fly. 

Hark  !  what  petty  pulses,  beating, 
Spring  new  moments  into  light ; 

Every  pulse,  its  stroke  repeating, 
Sends  its  moment  back  to  night ; 

Yet  not  one  of  all  the  train 

Comes  uncalPd,  or  flits  in  vain. 

In  the  highest  realms  of  glory, 
Spirits  trace,  before  the  throne, 

On  eternal  scrolls,  the  story 
Of  each  little  moment  flown  ; 

Every  deed,  and  word,  and  thought, 

Through  the  whole  creation  wrought. 

Were  the  volume  of  a  minute 
Thus  to  mortal  sight  unroll' d, 

More  of  sin  and  sorrow  in  it, 
More  of  man,  might  we  behold, 

Than  on  History's  broadest  page, 

In  the  relics  of  an  age. 

Who  could  bear  the  revelation  ? 
Who  abide  the  sudden  test  ? 


THE    TIME- PIECE 


— With  instinctive  consternation, 

Hands  would  cover  every  breast, 
Loudest  tongues  at  once  be  hush'd, 
Pride  in  all  its  writhings  crush'd. 

Who,  with  leer  malign  exploring, 

On  his  neighbour's  shame  durst  look  ? 

Would  not  each,  intensely  poring 
On  that  record  in  the  book, 

Which  his  inmost  soul  reveal'd, 

Wish  its  leaves  for  ever  seal'd  ? 

Seal'd  they  are  for  years,  and  ages, 
Till, — the  earth's  last  circuit  run, 

Empire  changed  through  all  its  stages, 
Risen  and  set  the  latest  sun, — 

On  the  sea  and  on  the  land 

Shall  a  midnight  angel  stand  : — 

Stand  ; — and,  while  th'  abysses  tremble, 
Swear  that  Time  shall  be  no  more : 

Quick  and  Dead  shall  then  assemble, 
Men  and  Demons  range  before 

That  tremendous  judgment-seat, 

Where  both  worlds  at  issue  meet. 

Time  himself,  with  all  his  legions, 

Days,  Months,  Years,  since  Nature's  birth, 

Shall  revive, — and  from  all  regions, 
Singling  out  the  sons  of  earth, 

With  their  glory  or  disgrace, 

Charge  their  spenders  face  to  face. 

Every  moment  of  my  being 

Then  shall  pass  before  mine  eyes  : 

— God,  all-searching  !  God,  all-seeing  ! 
Oh  !  appease  them,  ere  they  rise  : 

Warn'd  I  fly,  I  fly  to  thee ; 

God,  be  merciful  to  me  ! 

Liverpool,  1816. 


300  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

A  Mother's  Love, — how  sweet  the  name  ! 

What  is  a  Mother's  love  ? 
— A  noble,  pure,  and  tender  flame, 

Enkindled  from  above, 
To  bless  a  heart  of  earthly  mould ; 
The  warmest  love  that  can  grow  cold ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  bring  a  helpless  babe  to  light, 

Then,  while  it  lies  forlorn, 
To  gaze  upon  that  dearest  sight, 

And  feel  herself  new-born, 
In  its  existence  lose  her  own, 
And  live  and  breathe  in  it  alone  ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

Its  weakness  in  her  arms  to  bear ; 

To  cherish  on  her  breast, 
Feed  it  from  Love's  own  fountain  there, 

And  lull  it  there  to  rest ; 
Then,  while  it  slumbers,  watch  its  breath, 
As  if  to  guard  from  instant  death  ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  mark  its  growth  from  day  to  day, 

Its  opening  charms  admire, 
Catch  from  its  eye  the  earliest  ray 

Of  intellectual  fire  ; 
To  smile  and  listen  while  it  talks, 
And  lend  a  finger  when  it  walks  ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

And  can  a  Mother's  Love  grow  cold  ? 

Can  she  forget  her  boy  ? 
His  pleading  innocence  behold, 

Nor  weep  for  grief — for  joy  ? 


301 


A  Mother  may  forget  her  child, 
While  wolves  devour  it  on  the  wild  ; 
Is  this  a  Mother's  Love  ? 

Ten  thousand  voices  answer  "  No  !" 
Ye  clasp  your  babes  and  kiss ; 

Your  bosoms  yearn,  your  eyes  o'erflow ; 
Yet,  ah  !  remember  this, — 

The  infant,  rear'd  alone  for  earth, 

May  live,  may  die, — to  curse  his  birth  ; 
Is  this  a  Mother's  Love  ? 

A  parent's  heart  may  prove  a  snare ; 

The  child  she  loves  so  well, 
Her  hand  may  lead,  with  gentlest  care, 

Down  the  smooth  road  to  hell ; 
Nourish  its  frame, — destroy  its  mind  : 
Thus  do  the  blind  mislead  the  blind, 

Even  with  a  Mother's  Love. 

Blest  infant !  whom  his  mother  taught 

Early  to  seek  the  Lord, 
And  pour'd  upon  his  dawning  thought 

The  day-spring  of  the  word  ; 
This  was  the  lesson  to  her  son, 
— Time  is  Eternity  begun  : 

Behold  that  Mother's  Love.* 

Blest  Mother  !  who,  in  wisdom's  path 

By  her  own  parent  trod, 
Thus  taught  her  son  to  flee  the  wrath, 

And  know  the  fear,  of  God  : 
Ah,  youth  !  like  him  enjoy  your  prime  ; 
Begin  Eternity  in  time, 

Taught  by  that  Mother's  Love. 

That  Mother's  Love  ! — how  sweet  the  name  ! 

What  was  that  Mother's  Love  ? 
— The  noblest,  purest,  tenderest  flame, 

That  kindles  from  above, 

*2  Tim.  i.  5;  iii.  14,  15. 
VOL.  U.  26 


302  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Within  a  heart  of  earthy  mould, 
As  much  of  heaven  as  heart  can  hold, 
Nor  through  eternity  grows  cold : 
This  was  that  Mother's  Love. 


THE  VISIBLE  CREATION, 

The  God  of  Nature  and  of  Grace 

In  all  his  works  appears  ; 
His  goodness  through  the  earth  we  trace, 

His  grandeur  in  the  spheres. 

Behold  this  fair  and  fertile  globe, 

By  Him  in  wisdom  plann'd ; 
'Twas  He  who  girded,  like  a  robe, 

The  ocean  round  the  land. 

Lift  to  the  firmament  your  eye, 

Thither  his  path  pursue  ; 
His  glory,  boundless  as  the  sky, 

O'erwhelms  the  wondering  view. 

He  bows  the  heavens — the  mountains  stand 

A  highway  for  their  God ; 
He  walks  amidst  the  desert  land, 

— 'Tis  Eden  where  He  trod. 

The  forests  in  His  strength  rejoice  ; 

Hark  !  on  the  evening  breeze, 
As  once  of  old,  the  Lord  God's  voice 

Is  heard  among  the  trees. 

Here  on  the  hills  He  feeds  his  herds, 

His  flocks  on  yonder  plains  : 
His  praise  is  warbled  by  the  birds  ; 

— Oh  !  could  we  catch  their  strains  ! 

— Mount  with  the  lark,  and  bear  our  song 
Up  to  the  gates  of  light, 


REMINISCENCES. 


Or  with  the  nightingale  prolong 
Our  numbers  through  the  night ! 

In  every  stream  his  bounty  flows, 

Diffusing  joy  and  wealth  ; 
In  every  breeze  his  spirit  blows, 

— The  breath  of  life  and  health. 

His  blessings  fall  in  plenteous  showers 

Upon  the  lap  of  earth, 
That  teems  with  foliage,  fruit,  and  flowers, 

And  rings  with  infant  mirth. 

If  God  hath  made  this  world  so  fair, 

Where  sin  and  death  abound, 
How  beautiful  beyond  compare 

Will  Paradise  be  found  ! 


REMINISCENCES. 


Where  are  ye  with  whom  in  life  I  started, 
Dear  companions  of  my  golden  days  ? 

Ye  are  dead,  estranged  from  me,  or  parted, 

— Flown,  like  morning  clouds,  a  thousand  ways. 

Where  art  thou,  in  youth  my  friend  and  brother, 
Yea,  in  soul  my  friend  .and  brother  still  ? 

Heaven  received  thee,  and  on  earth  none  other 
Can  the  void  in  my  lorn  bosom  fill. 

Where  is  she,  whose  looks  were  love  and  gladness  ? 

— Love  and  gladness  I  no  longer  see  ! 
She  is  gone  ;  and,  since  that  hour  of  sadness, 

Nature  seems  her  sepulchre  to  me. 

Where  am  I  ? — life's  current  faintly  flowing, 
Brings  the  welcome  warning  of  release  ; 

Struck  with  death,  ah  !  whither  am  I  going  ? 
All  is  well, — my  spirit  parts  in  peace. 


304  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  REIGN  OF  SPRING. 

Who  loves  not  Spring's  voluptuous  hours, 

The  carnival  of  birds  and  flowers  ? 

Yet  who  would  choose,  however  dear, 

That  Spring  should  revel  all  the  year  ? 

— Who  loves  not  Summer's  splendid  reign, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  main  ? 

Yet  who  would  choose,  however  bright, 

A  Dog-day  noon  without  a  night  1 

— Who  loves  not  Autumn's  joyous  round, 

When  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil  abound  ? 

Yet  who  would  choose,  however  gay, 

A  year  of  un renew' d  decay  ? 

— Who  loves  not  Winter's  awful  form  ? 

The  sphere-born  music  of  the  storm  ? 

Yet  who  would  choose,  how  grand  soever, 

The  shortest  day  to  last  for  ever? 

'Twas  in  that  age  renown'd,  remote, 
When  all  was  true  that  Esop  wrote ; 
And  in  that  land  of  fair  Ideal, 
Where  all  that  poets  dream  is  real ; 
Upon  a  day  of  annual  state, 
The  Seasons  met  in  high  debate. 
There  blush'd  young  Spring  in  maiden  pride, 
Blithe  Summer  look'd  a  gorgeous  bride, 
Staid  Autumn  moved  with  matron-grace, 
And  beldame  Winter  pursed  her  face. 
Dispute  grew  wild  ;  all  talk'd  together  ; 
The  four  at  once  made  wondrous  weather ; 
Nor  one  (whate'er  the  rest  had  shown) 
Heard  any  reason  but  her  own ; 
While  each  (for  nothing  else  was  clear) 
Claim'd  the  whole  circle  of  the  year. 

Spring,  in  possession  of  the  field, 
Compell'd  her  sisters  soon  to  yield : 


THE    REIGN    OF    SPRING.  305 

They  part, — resolved  elsewhere  to  try 
A  twelvemonth's  empire  of  the  sky ; 
And,  calling  off  their  airy  legions, 
Alighted  in  adjacent  regions. 
Spring  o'er  the  eastern  campaign  smiled, 
Fell  Winter  ruled  the  northern  wild, 
Summer  pursued  the  sun's  red  car, 
But  Autumn  loved  the  twilight  star. 

As  Spring  parades  her  new  domain, 
Love,  Beauty,  Pleasure,  hold  her  train ; 
Her  footsteps  wake  the  flowers  beneath, 
That  start,  and  blush,  and  sweetly  breathe  ; 
Her  gales  on  nimble  pinions  rove, 
And  shake  to  foliage  every  grove  ; 
Her  voice,  in  dell  and  thicket  heard, 
Cheers  on  the  nest  the  mother-bird  ; 
The  ice-lock'd  streams,  as  if  they  felt 
Her  touch,  to  liquid  diamond  melt ; 
The  lambs  around  her  bleat  and  play  ; 
The  serpent  flings  his  slough  away, 
And  shines  in  orient  colours  dight, 
A  flexile  ray  of  living  light. 
Nature  unbinds  her  wintry  shroud, 
(As  the  soft  sunshine  melts  the  cloud,) 
With  infant  gambols  sports  along, 
Bounds  into  youth,  and  soars  in  song. 
The  morn  impearls  her  locks  with  dew, 
Noon  spreads  a  sky  of  boundless  blue, 
The  rainbow  spans  the  evening  scene, 
The  night  is  silent  and  serene, 
Save  when  her  lonely  minstrel  wrings 
The  heart  with  sweetness  while  he  sings. 
— Who  would  not  wish,  unrivall'd  here, 
That  Spring  might  frolic  all  the  year  ? 

Three  months  are  fled,  and  still  she  reigns, 
Exulting-  queen  o'er  hills  and  plains  ; 
The  birds  renew  their  nuptial  vow, 
Nestlings  themselves  are  lovers  now  ; 

"~26* 


306  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Fresh  broods  each  bending  bough  receives, 

Till  feathers  far  outnumber  leaves  ; 

But  kites  in  circles  swim  the  air, 

And  sadden  music  to  despair. 

The  stagnant  pools,  the  quaking  bogs, 

Teem,  croak,  and  crawl  with  hordes  of  frogs ; 

The  matted  woods,  th'  infected  earth, 

Are  venomous  with  reptile-birth  ; 

Armies  of  locusts  cloud  the  skies  ; 

With  beetles  hornets,  gnats  with  flies, 

Interminable  warfare  wage, 

And  madden  heaven  with  insect-rage. 

The  flowers  are  wither' d  ; — sun  nor  dew 
Their  fallen  glories  shall  renew  ; 
The  flowers  are  wither'd ; — germ  nor  seed 
Ripen  in  garden,  wild,  or  mead  : 
The  corn-fields  shoot : — their  blades,  alas  ! 
Run  riot  in  luxuriant  grass. 
The  tainted  flocks,  the  drooping  kine, 
In  famine  of  abundance  pine, 
Where  vegetation,  sour,  unsound, 
And  loathsome,  rots  and  rankles  round ; 
Nature  with  nature  seems  at  strife ; 
Nothing  can  live  but  monstrous  life 
By  death  engender' d  ; — food  and  breath 
Are  turn'd  to  elements  of  death ; 
And  where  the  soil  his  victims  strew, 
Corruption  quickens  them  anew. 

But  ere  the  year  was  half  expired, 
Spring  saw  her  folly,  and  retired  ; 
Yoked  her  light  chariot  to  a  breeze, 
And  mounted  to  the  Pleiades  ; 
Content  with  them  to  rest  or  play 
Along  the  calm  nocturnal  way ; 
Till,  heaven's  remaining  circuit  run, 
They  meet  the  pale  hybernal  sun, 
And,  gaily  mingling  in  his  blaze, 
Hail  the  true  dawn  of  vernal  days. 


THE    REIGN    OF    SUMMER.  307 


THE  REIGN  OF  SUMMER. 

The  hurricanes  are  fled  ;  the  rains, 

That  plough 'd  the  mountains,  wreck'd  the  plains, 

Have  pass'd  away  before  the  wind, 

And  left  a  wilderness  behind, 

As  if  an  ocean  had  been  there 

Exhaled,  and  left  its  channels  bare. 

But,  with  a  new  and  sudden  birth, 

Nature  replenishes  the  earth  ; 

Plants,  flowers,  and  shrubs,  o'er  all  the  land 

So  promptly  rise,  so  thickly  stand, 

As  if  they  heard  a  voice, — and  came, 

Each  at  the  calling  of  its  name. 

The  tree,  by  tempests  stript  and  rent, 

Expands  its  verdure  like  a  tent, 

Beneath  whose  shade,  in  weary  length, 

Th'  enormous  lion  rests  his  strength, 

For  blood,  in  dreams  of  hunting,  burns, 

Or,  chased  himself,  to  flight  returns  ; 

Growls  in  his  sleep,  a  dreary  sound, 

Grinds  his  wedged  teeth,  and  spurns  the  ground 

While  monkeys,  in  grotesque  amaze, 

Down  from  their  bending  perches  gaze, 

But  when  he  lifts  his  eye  of  fire, 

Quick  to  the  topmost  boughs  retire. 

Loud  o'er  the  mountains  bleat  the  flocks  ; 
The  goat  is  bounding  on  the  rocks ; 
Far  in  the  valleys  range  the  herds; 
The  welkin  gleams  with  flitting  birds, 
Whose  plumes  such  gorgeous  tints  adorn, 
They  seem  the  offspring  of  the  morn. 
From  nectar'd  flowers  and  groves  of  spice, 
Earth  breathes  the  air  of  Paradise  ; 


308  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Her  mines  their  hidden  wealth  betray, 
Treasures  of  darkness  burst  to  day ; 
O'er  golden  sands  the  rivers  glide, 
And  pearls  and  amber  track  the  tide. 
Of  every  sensual  bliss  possess'd, 
Man  riots  here  ; — but  is  he  bless'd  ? 
And  would  he  choose,  for  ever  bright, 
This  Summer-day  without  a  night  1  ■ 
For  here  hath  Summer  fix'd  her  throne, 
Intent  to  reign, — and  reign  alone. 

Daily  the  sun,  in  his  career, 
Hotter  and  higher,  climbs  the  sphere, 
Till  from  the  zenith,  in  his  rays, 
Without  a  cloud  or  shadow,  blaze 
The  realms  beneath  him : — in  his  march, 
On  the  blue  key-stone  of  heaven's  arch, 
He  stands  ; — air,  earth,  and  ocean  He 
Within  the  presence  of  his  eye. 
The  wheel  of  Nature  seems  to  rest, 
Nor  rolls  him  onward  to  the  west, 
Till  thrice  three  days  of  noon  unchanged, 
That  torrid  clime  have  so  deranged, 
Nine  years  may  not  the  wrong  repair ; 
But  Summer  checks  the  ravage  there  ; 
Yet  still  enjoins  the  sun  to  steer 
By  the  stern  Dog-star  round  the  year, 
With  dire  extremes  of  day  and  night, 
Tartarean  gloom,  celestial  light. 

In  vain  the  gaudy  season  shines, 
Her  beauty  fades,  her  power  declines ; 
Then  first  her  bosom  felt  a  care  ; 
— No  healing  breeze  embalm'd  the  aii, 
No  mist  the  mountain-tops  bedew'd, 
Nor  shower  the  arid  vale  renew'd  ; 
The  herbage  shrunk;  the  ploughman's  toil 
Scatter'd  to  dust  the  crumbling  soil ; 
Blossoms  were  shed  ;  th'  umbrageous  wood, 
Laden  with  sapless  foliage,  stood  ; 


THE    REIGN    OF    SUMMER. 


The  streams,  impoverish1  d  day  by  day, 

Lessen'd  insensibly  away ; 

Where  cattle  sought,  with  piteous  moans, 

The  vanish'd  lymph,  midst  burning  stones, 

And  tufts  of  wither'd  reeds,  that  fill 

The  wonted  channel  of  the  rill ; 

Till,  stung  with  horjiets,  mad  with  thirst, 

In  sudden  rout,  away  they  burst, 

Nor  rest,  till  where  some  channel  deep, 

Gleams  in  small  pools,  whose  waters  sleep ; 

There  with  huge  draught  and  eager  eye 

Drink  for  existence, — drink  and  die  ! 

But  direr  evils  soon  arose, 

Hopeless,  unmitigable  woes ; 

Man  proves  the  shock ;  through  all  his  veins 

The  frenzy  of  the  season  reigns ; 

With  pride,  lust,  rage,  ambition  blind, 

He  burns  in  every  fire  of  mind, 

Which  kindles  from  insane  desire, 

Or  fellest  hatred  can  inspire  ; 

Reckless  whatever  ill  befall, 

He  dares  to  do  and  suffer  all 

That  heart  can  think,  that  arm  can  deal, 

Or  out  of  hell  a  fury  feel. 

There  stood  in  that  romantic  clime 
A  mountain  awfully  sublime  ; 
O'er  many  a  league  the  basement  spread, 
It  tower'd  in  many  an  airy  head, 
Height  over  height, — now  gay,  now  wild, 
The  peak  with  ice  eternal  piled  ; 
Pure  in  mid-heaven,  that  crystal  cone 
A  diadem  of  glory  shone, 
Reflecting,  in  the  night-fall'n  sky, 
The  beams  of  day's  departed  eye  ; 
Or  holding,  ere  the  dawn  begun, 
Communion  with  tli'  unriscn  sun. 
The  cultured  sides  were  clothed  with  woods, 
Vineyards,  and  fields;  or  track'd  with  floods, 


310  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Whose  glacier  fountains,  hid  on  high, 
Sent  down  their  rivers  from  the  sky. 
O'er  plains,  that  mark'd  its  gradual  scale, 
On  sunny  slope,  in  shelter'd  vale, 
Earth's  universal  tenant, — He, 
Who  lives  wherever  life  may  be, 
Sole,  social,  fix'd,  or  free  to  roam, 
Always  and  everywhere  at  home, 
Man  pitch'd  his  tents,  adorn'd  his  bowers, 
Built  temples,  palaces,  and  towers, 
And  made  that  Alpine  world  his  own, 
—The  miniature  of  every  zone, 
From  brown  savannas  parch' d  below, 
To  ridges  of  cerulean  snow. 

Those  high-lands  form'd  a  last  retreat 
From  rabid  Summer's  fatal  heat : 
Though  not  unfelt  her  fervours  there, 
Vernal  and  cool  the  middle  air ; 
While  from  the  icy  pyramid 
Streams  of  unfailing  freshness  slid, 
That  long  had  slaked  the  thirsty  land, 
Till  avarice,  with  insatiate  hand, 
Their  currents  check'd  ;  in  sunless  caves, 
And  rock-bound  dells,  engulf 'd  the  waves, 
And  thence  in  scanty  measures  doled, 
Or  turn'd  heaven's  bounty  into  gold. 
Ere  long  the  dwellers  on  the  plain 
Murmur'd ; — their  murmurs  were  in  vain  ; 
Petition'd, — but  their  prayers  were  spurn'd ; 
Threaten' d, — defiance  was  return'd  ; 
Then  rang  both  regions  with  alarms  ; 
Blood-kindling  trumpets  blew  to  arms  ; 
The  maddening  drum  and  deafening  fife 
Marshall'd  the  elements  of  strife  : 
Sternly  the  mountaineers  maintain 
Their  rights  against  th'  insurgent  plain ; 
The  plain's  indignant  myriads  rose 
To  wrest  the  mountain  from  their  foes, 


THE    REIGN    OF    SUMMER.  311 

Resolved  its  blessings  to  enjoy- 
By  dint  of  valour, — or  destroy.  • 

The  legions  met  in  war-array  ; 
The  mountaineers  brook'd  no  delay  ; 
Aside  their  missile  weapons  threw, 
From  holds  impregnable  with'drew, 
And,  rashly  brave,  with  sword  and  shield, 
Rush'd  headlong  to  the  open  field. 
Their  foes  th'  auspicious  omen  took, 
And  raised  a  battle-shout  that  shook 
The  campaign  ; — stanch  and  keen  for  blood, 
Front  threatening  front,  the  columns  stood ; 
But,  while  like  thunder-clouds  they  frown, 
In  tropic  haste  the  sun  went  down ; 
Night  o'er  both  armies  stretch'd  her  tent, 
The  star-bespangled  firmament, 
Whose  placid  host,  revolving  slow, 
Smile  on  th'  impatient  hordes  below, 
That  chafe  and  fret  the  hours  away, 
Curse  the  dull  gloom,  and  long  for  day, 
Though  destined  by  their  own  decree 
No  other  day  nor  night  to  see. 
— That  night  is  past,  that  day  begun ; 
Swift  as  he  sunk  ascends  the  sun, 
And  from  the  red  horizon  springs 
Upward,  as  borne  on  eagle-wings  : 
Aslant  each  army's  lengthen'd  lines, 
O'er  shields  and  helms  he  proudly  shines 
While  spears,  that  catch  his  lightnings  keen, 
Flash  them  athwart  the  space  between. 
Before  the  battle-shock,  when  breath 
And  pulse  are  still, — awaiting  death  ; 
In  that  cold  pause,  which  seems  to  be 
The  prelude  to  eternity, 
When  fear,  ere  yet  a  blow  is  dealt, 
Betray'd  by  none,  by  all  is  felt ; 
While,  moved  beneath  their  feet,  the  tomb 
Widens  her  lap  to  make  them  room ; 


312  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

— Till,  in  the  onset  of  the  fray, 
Fear^eeling,  thought  are  cast  away, 
And  foaming,  raging,  mingling  foes, 
Like  billows  dash'd  in  conflict,  close, 
Charge,  strike,  repel,  wound,  struggle,  fly, 
Gloriously  win,  unconquer'd  die  : — 
Here,  in  dread  silence,  while  they  stand, 
Each  with  a  death-stroke  in  his  hand, 
His  eye  fix'd  forward,  and  his  ear 
Tingling  the  signal  blast  to  hear ; 
The  trumpet  sounds ; — one  note, — no  more ; 
The  field,  the  fight,  the  war  is  o'er ; 
An  earthquake  rent  the  void  between  ; 
A  moment  show'd,  and  shut  the  scene ; 
Men,  chariots,  steeds, — of  either  host, 
The  flower,  the  pride,  the  strength  were  lost : 
A  solitude  remains  ; — the  dead 
Are  buried  there, — the  living  fled. 

Nor  yet  the  reign  of  Summer  closed  ; 
— At  night  in  their  own  homes  reposed 
The  fugitives,  on  either  side, 
Who  'scaped  the  death  their  comrades  died ; 
When,  lo !  with  many  a  giddy  shock 
The  mountain-cliffs  began  to  rock, 
And  deep  below  the  hollow  ground 
Ran  a  strange  mystery  of  sound, 
As  if,  in  chains  and  torments  there, 
Spirits  were  venting  their  despair. 
That  sound,  those  shocks,  the  sleepers  woke  ; 
In  trembling  consternation,  broke 
Forth  from  their  dwellings,  young  and  old ; 
— Nothing  abroad  their  eyes  behold 
But  darkness  so  intensely  wrought, 
'Twas  blindness  in  themselves  they  thought. 
Anon,  aloof,  with  sudden  rays, 
Issued  so  fierce,  so  broad  a  blaze, 
That  darkness  started  into  light, 
And  every  eye,  restored  to  sight, 


THi:    KKIGX    OF    SUMMER. 


Gazed  on  the  glittering  crest  of  snows, 
Whence  the  bright  conflagration  rose, 
Whose  flames  condensed  at  once  aspire, 
— A  pillar  of  celestial  fire, 
Alone  amidst  infernal  shade, 
In  glorious  majesty  display'd  : 
Beneath,  from  rifted  caverns,  broke 
Volumes  of  suffocating  smoke, 
That  roll'd  in  surges,  like  a  flood, 
By  the  red  radiance  turn'd  to  blood ; 
Morn  look'd  aghast  upon  the  scene, 
Nor  could  a  sunbeam  pierce  between 
The  panoply  of  vapours,  spread 
Above,  around  the  mountain's  head. 

In  distant  fields,  with  drought  consumed, 
Joy  swell'd  all  hearts,  all  eyes  illumed, 
When  from  that  peak,  through  lowering  skies, 
Thick  curling  clouds  were  seen  to  rise, 
And  hang  o'er  all  the  darken 'd  plain, 
The  presage  of  descending  rain. 
Th'  exulting  cattle  bound  along, 
The  tuneless  birds  attempt  a  song, 
The  swain,  amidst  his  sterile  lands, 
With  outstretch'd  arms  of  rapture  stands. 
But,  fraught  with  plague  and  curses,  came 
Th'  insidious  progeny  of  flame  ; 
Ah  !  then, — for  fertilizing  showers, 
The  pledge  of  herbage,  fruits,  and  flowers, — 
Words  cannot  paint,  how  every  eye 
(Blood-shot  and  dim  with  agony) 
Was  glazed,  as  by  a  palsying  spell, 
When  light  sulphureous  ashes  fell, 
Dazzling,  and  eddying  to  and  fro, 
Like  wildering  sleet  or  feathery  snow : 
Strewn  with  gray  pumice  Nature  lies, 
At  every  motion  quick  to  rise, 
Tainting  with  livid  fumes  the  air; 
— Then  hope  lies  down  in  prone  despair, 


vol.  u.  27 


314  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  man  and  beast,  with  misery  dumb, 
Sullenly  brood  on  woes  to  come. 

The  mountain  now,  like  living-  earthf 
Pregnant  with  some  stupendous  birth, 
Heaved,  in  the  anguish  of  its  throes, 
Sheer  from  its  crest  th'  incumbent  snows ; 
And  where  of  old  they  chill'd  the  sky, 
Beneath  the  sun's  meridian  eye, 
Or,  purpling  in  the  golden  west, 
Appear'd  his  evening  throne  of  rest, 
There,  black  and  bottomless  and  wide, 
A  cauldron,  rent  from  side  to  side, 
Simmer'd  and  hiss'd  with  huge  turmoil ; 
Earth's  disembowelPd  minerals  boil, 
And  thence  in  molten  torrents  rush ; 
— Water  and  fire,  like  sisters,  gush 
From  the  same  source  ;  the  double  stream 
Meets,  battles,  and  explodes  in  steam ; 
Then  fire  prevails  ;  and  broad  and  deep 
Red  lava  roars  from  steep  to  steep  ; 
While  rocks  unseated,  woods  upriven, 
Are  headlong  down  the  current  driven ; 
Columnar  flames  are  wrapt  aloof, 
In  whirlwind  forms,  to  heaven's  high  roof, 
And  there,  amidst  transcendent  gloom, 
Image  the  wrath  beyond  the  tomb. 

The  mountaineers,  in  wild  affright, 
Too  late  for  safety,  urge  their  flight ; 
Women,  made  childless  in  the  fray, 
Women,  made  mothers  yesterday, 
The  sick,  the  aged,  and  the  blind ; 
— None  but  the  dead  are  left  behind. 
Painful  their  journey,  toilsome,  slow, 
Beneath  their  feet  quick  embers  glow, 
And  hurtle  round  in  dreadful  hail ; 
Their  limbs,  their  hearts,  their  senses  fail, 
While  many  a  victim,  by  the  way, 
Buried  alive  in  ashes  lay, 


Till:    REIGN    OF    SUMMER.  315 

Or  perish'd  by  the  lightning's  stroke, 

Before  the  slower  thunder  broke. 

A  few  the  open  field  explore  : 

The  throng  sock  refuge  on  the  shore, 

Between  two  burning  rivers  hcmm'd, 

Whose  rage  nor  mounds  nor  hollows  stemm'd  ; 

Driven  like  a  herd  of  deer,  they  reach 

The  lonely,  dark,  and  silent  beach, 

Where,  calm  as  innocence  in  sleep, 

Expanded  lies  th'  unconscious  deep. 

Awhile  the  fugitives  respire, 

And  watch  those  cataracts  of  fire 

(That  bar  escape  on  either  hand) 

Rush  on  the  ocean  from  the  strand ; 

Back  from  the  onset  rolls  the  tide, 

But  instant  clouds  the  conflict  hide ; 

The  lavas  plunge  to  gulfs  unknown, 

And,  as  they  plunge,  collapse  to  stone. 

.Meanwhile  the  mad  volcano  grew 
Tenfold  more  terrible  to  view  ; 
And  thunders,  such  as  shall  be  hurl'd 
At  the  death-sentence  of  the  world ; 
And  lightnings,  such  as  shall  consume 
Creation,  and  creation's  tomb, 
Nor  leave,  amidst  th'  eternal  void, 
One  trembling  atom  undestroy'd  ; 
Such  thunders  crash'd,  such  lightnings  glared : 
—  Another  fate  those  outcasts  shared, 
When,  with  one  desolating  sweep, 
An  earthquake  seem'd  t'  ingulf  the  deep, 
Then  threw  it  back,  and  from  its  bed 
Hung  a  whole  ocean  overhead  ; 
The  victims  shriek'd  beneath  the  wave, 
And  in  a  moment  found  one  grave  ; 
Down  to  tli*  abyss  the  flood  return'd, — 
Alone,  unseen,  the  mountain  burn'd. 

1815. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


INSTRUCTION. 

From  heaven  descends  the  drops  of  dew, 

From  heaven  the  gracious  showers, 
Earth's  winter-aspect  to  renew, 

And  clothe  the  spring  with  flowers  ; 
From  heaven  the  beams  of  morning  flow, 

That  melt  the  gloom  of  night ; 
From  heaven  the  evening  breezes  blow, 

Health,  fragrance,  and  delight. 

Like  genial  dew,  like  fertile  showers, 

The  words  of  wisdom  fall, 
Awaken  man's  unconscious  powers, 

Strength  out  of  weakness  call : 
Like  morning  beams  they  strike  the  mind, 

Its  loveliness  reveal ; 
And  softer  than  the  evening  wind, 

The  wounded  spirit  heal. 

As  dew  and  rain,  as  light  and  air, 

From  heaven  instruction  came, 
The  waste  of  Nature  to  repair, 

Kindle  a  sacred  flame  ; 
A  flame  to  purify  the  earth, 

Exalt  her  sons  on  high, 
And  train  them  for  their  second  birth, 

— Their  birth  beyond  the  sky. 

Albion  !  on  every  human  soul, 

By  thee  be  knowledge  shed, 
Far  as  the  ocean-waters  roll, 

Wide  as  the  shores  are  spread : 


A  NIGHT  IN  A  STAGE-COACH.  317 

Truth  makes  thy  children  free  at  home  ; 

Oh  !  that  thy  flag,  unfurl'd, 
Might  shine,  where'er  thy  children  roam, 

Truth's  Banner  round  the  world. 


London,  1812. 


A  NIGHT  IN  A  STAGE-COACH ; 

BEING    A    MEDITATION    ON    THE    WAY    BETWEEN    LONDON 
AND    BRISTOL, 

SEPTEMBER    23,    1815. 

I  travel  all  the  irksome  night, 

By  ways  to  me  unknown  ; 
I  travel,  like  a  bird  in  night, 

Onward,  and  all  alone. 

In  vain  I  close  my  weary  eyes, 

They  will  not,  cannot  sleep, 
But,  like  the  watchers  of  the  skies, 

Their  twinkling  vigils  keep. 

My  thoughts  are  wandering  wild  and  far ; 

From  earth  to  heaven  they  dart ; 
Now  wing  their  flight  from  star  to  star, 

Now  dive  into  my  heart. 

Backward  they  roll  the  tide  of  time, 

And  live  through  vanish'd  years, 
Or  hold  their  "colloquy  sublime" 

With  future  hopes  and  fears; 

Thru  passing  joys  and  present  woes 
( lhase  through  my  troubled  mind, 
Repose  still  seeking, — but  repose 
for  a  moment  find. 


318  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

So  yonder  lone  and  lovely  moon 
Gleams  on  the  clouds  gone  by, 

Illumines  those  around  her  noon, 
Yet  westward  points  her  eye. 

Nor  wind  nor  flood  her  course  delay, 
Through  heaven  I  see  her  glide  ; 

She  never  pauses  on  her  way, 
She  never  turns  aside. 

With  anxious  heart  and  throbbing  brain, 
Strength,  patience,  spirits  gone, 

Pulses  of  fire  in  every  vein, 
Thus,  thus  I  journey  on. 

But  soft ! — in  Nature's  failing  hour, 
Up  springs  a  breeze, — I  feel 

Its  balmy  breath,  its  cordial  power, 
A  power  to  soothe  and  heal. 

Lo !  gray,  and  gold,  and  crimson  streaks 

The  gorgeous  east  adorn, 
While  o'er  th'  empurpled  mountain  breaks 

The  glory  of  the  morn. 

Insensibly  the  stars  retire, 

Exhaled  like  drops  of  dew  ; 
Now  through  an  arch  of  living  fire, 

The  sun  comes  forth  to  view. 

The  hills,  the  vales,  the  waters  burn 

With  his  enkindling  rays, 
No  sooner  touch' d  than  they  return 

A. tributary  blaze. 

His  quickening  light  on  me  descends, 
His  cheering  warmth  I  own  ; 

Upward  to  him  my  spirit  tends, 
But  worships  God  alone. 

Oh  !  that  on  me,  with  beams  benign, 
His  countenance  would  turn  : 


A    NIGHT    IN    A    STAGE-COACH.  318 

I  too  should  then  arise  and  shine, 
— Arise,  and  shine,  and  burn. 

SIoavIv  I  raise  my  languid  head, 

Pain  and  soul-sickness  cease  ; 
The  phantoms  of  dismay  are  fled, 

And  health  returns,  and  peace. 

Where  is  the  beauty  of  the  scene, 

Which  silent  night  display'd  ? 
The  clouds,  the  stars,  the  blue  serene, 

The  moving  light  and  shade  ? 

All  gone  ! — the  moon,  erewhile  so  bright, 

Veil'd  with  a  dusky  shroud, 
Seems,  in  the  sun's  o'erpowering  light, 

The  fragment  of  a  cloud. 

At  length,  I  reach  my  journey's  end  : 

Welcome  that  well-known  face  ! 
I  meet  a  brother  and  a  friend  ; 

I  find  a  resting-place. 

Just  such  a  pilgrimage  is  life  ; 

Hurried  from  stage  to  stage, 
Our  wishes  with  our  lot  at  strife, 

Through  childhood  to  old  age. 

The  world  is  seldom  what  it  seems  : — 

To  man,  who  dimly  sees, 
Realities  appear  as  dreams, 

And  dreams  realities. 

The  Christian's  years,  though  slow  their  flight, 

When  he  is  call'd  away, 
Are  but  the  watches  of  a  night, 

And  Death  the  dawn  of  day. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


INCOGNITA : 

ON  VIEWING  THE  PICTURE    OF  AN  UNKNOWN  LADY. 

WRITTEN  AT  LEAMINGTON,  IN   1817. 

"She  was  a  phantom  of  delight."  Wordsworth. 

Image  of  One,  who  lived  of  yore ! 

Hail  to  that  lovely  mien, 
Once  quick  and  conscious, — now  no  more 

On  land  or  ocean  seen  ! 
Were  all  earth's  breathing  forms  to  pass 
Before  me  in  Agrippa's  glass,3 
Many  as  fair  as  Thou  might  be, 
But  oh !  not  one, — not  one  like  Thee. 

Thou  art  no  Child  of  Fancy  ; — Thou 

The  very  look  dost  wear, 
That  gave  enchantment  to  a  brow, 

Wreathed  with  luxuriant  hair; 
Lips  of  the  morn  embathed  in  dew, 
And  eyes  of  evening's  starry  blue  ; 
Of  all  who  e'er  enjoyed  the  sun, 
Thou  art  the  image  of  but  One. 

And  who  was  she,  in  virgin  prime, 

And  May  of  womanhood, 
Whose  roses  here,  unpluck'd  by  Time, 

In  shadowy  tints  have  stood  ; 
While  many  a  winter's  withering  blast 
Hath  o'er  the  dark  cold  chamber  pass'd, 
In  which  her  once-resplendent  form 
Slnmber'd  to  dust  beneath  the  storm  ? 

Of  gentle  blood  ; — upon  her  birth 

Consenting  planets  smiled, 
And  she  had  seen  those  days  of  mirth 

That  frolic  round  the  child ; 


•  0¥&, 


INCOGNITA.  321 


To  bridal  bloom  her  strength  had  sprung, 
Behold  her  beautiful  and  young ! 
Lives  there  a  record,  which  hath  told 
That  she  was  wedded,  widow'd,  old  ? 

How  long  her  date,  'twere  vain  to  guess : 

The  pencil's  cunning  art 
Can  but  a  single  glance  express, 

One  motion  of  the  heart ; 
A  smile,  a  blush, — a  transient  grace 
Of  air,  and  attitude,  and  face  ; 
One  passion's  changing  colour  mix, 
One  moment's  flight  for  ages  fix. 

Her  joys  and  griefs  alike  in  vain 

"Would  fancy  here  recall ; 
Her  throbs  of  ecstasy  or  pain 

Lull'd  in  oblivion  all ; 
With  her,  methinks,  life's  little  hour 
Pass'd  like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower, 
That  leaves  upon  the  vernal  wind 
Sweetness  we  ne'er  again  may  find. 

Where  dwelt  she  ? — Ask  yon  aged  tree, 
Whose  boughs  embower  the  lawn, 

Whether  the  birds'  wild  minstrelsy 
Awoke  her  here  at  dawn  ? 

Whether  beneath  its  youthful  shade, 

At  noon,  in  infancy  she  played  ? 

— If  from  the  oak  no  answer  come, 

Of  her  all  oracles  are  dumb. 

The  Dead  are  like  the  stars  by  day ; 

— Withdrawn  from  mortal  eye, 
But  not  extinct,  they  hold  their  way 

In  glory  through  the  sky  : 
Spirits,  from  bondage  thus  set  free, 
Vanish  amidst  immensity, 
"Where  human  thought,  like  human  sight, 
Fails  to  pursue  their  trackless  flight. 


322  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Somewhere  within  created  space, 

Could  I  explore  that  round, 
In  bliss,  or  wo,  there  is  a  place 

Where  she  might  still  be  found; 
And  oh  !  unless  those  eyes  deceive, 
I  may,  I  must,  I  will  believe, 
That  she,  whose  charms  so  meekly  glow, 
Is  what  she  only  seem'd  below  ; — 

An  angel  in  that  glorious  realm 
Where  God  himself  is  King : 
— But  awe  and  fear,  that  overwhelm 

Presumption,  check  my  wing ; 
Nor  dare  imagination  look 
Upon  the  symbols  of  that  book, 
Wherein  eternity  enrols 
The  judgments  on  departed  souls. 

Of  Her  of  whom  these  pictured  lines 

A  faint  resemblance  form ; 
— Fair  as  the  second  rainbow  shines 

Aloof  amid  the  storm  ; 
Of  Her,  this  "  shadow  of  a  shade," 
Like  its  original,  must  fade, 
And  She,  forgotten  when  unseen, 
Shall  be  as  if  she  ne'er  had  been. 

Ah  !  then,  perchance,  this  dreaming  strain, 

Of  all  that  e'er  I  sung, 
A  lorn  memorial  may  remain, 

When  silent  lies  my  tongue  ; 
When  shot  the  meteor  of  my  fame, 
Lost  the  vain  echo  of  my  name, 
This  leaf,  this  fallen  leaf,  may  be 
The  only  trace  of  her  and  me. 

With  One  who  lived  of  old,  my  song 

In  lowly  cadence  rose  ; 
To  One  who  is  unborn,  belong 

The  accents  of  its  close  : 


WINTER- LIGIITN  ING. 


Ages  to  come,  with  courteous  ear, 
Some  youth  my  warning  voice  may  hear ; 
And  voices  from  the  dead  should  be 
The  warnings  of  eternity. 

When  these  weak  lines  thy  presence  greet, 

Reader  !  if  I  am  bless'd, 
Again,  as  spirits,  may  we  meet 

In  glory  and  in  rest ! 
If  not, — and  1  have  lost  my  way, 
Here  part  we, — go  not  Thou  astray : 
No  tomb,  no  verse  my  story  tell ; 
Once,  and  for  ever,  Fare  Thee  well ! 


WINTER-LIGHTNING. 

The  flash  at  midnight ! — 'twas  a  light 
That  gave  the  blind  a  moment's  sight, 

Then  sunk  in  tenfold  gloom  ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  long  the  thunder  broke, 
The  deaf  ear  instantly  awoke, 

Then  closed  as  in  the  tomb : 
An  angel  might  have  pass'd  my  bed, 
Sounded  the  trump  of  God,  and  fled. 

So  life  appears  ; — a  sudden  birth, 
A  glance  revealing  heaven  and  earth, 

It  is  and  it  is  not ! 
So  fame  the  poet's  hope  deceives, 
Who  sings  for  after-times,  and  leaves 

A  name  to  be  forgot : 
Life  is  a  lightning-flash  of  breath, 
Fame  but  a  thunder-clap  at  death. 


1S34. 


321  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD. 

Seen  in  a  country  excursion  among  the  woods  and  rocks  of  Wharncliffe  and  the 
adjacent  park  and  pleasure  grounds  of  Wortley  Hall,  the  seat  of  the  Right 
Honourable  Lord  Wharncliffe,  near  Sheffield,  on  the  30th  day  of  June,  1818. 

The  summer  sun  was  in  the  west, 
Yet  far  above  his  evening  rest ; 
A  thousand  clouds  in  air  disp]ay'd 
Their  floating  isles  of  light  and  shade, 
The  sky,  like  ocean's  channels,  seen 
In  long  meandering  streaks  between. 

Cultured  and  waste,  the  landscape  lay, 
Woods,  mountains,  valleys  stretch'd  away, 
And  throng'd  th'  immense  horizon  round, 
With  heaven's  eternal  girdle  bound ; 
From  inland  towns,  eclipsed  with  smoke, 
Steeples  in  lonely  grandeur  broke  ; 
Hamlets,  and  cottages,  and  streams, 
By  glimpses  caught  the  casual  gleams, 
Or  blazed  in  lustre  broad  and  strong, 
Beyond  the  picturing  powers  of  song  : 
O'er  all  the  eye  enchanted  ranged, 
While  colours,  forms,  proportions  changed, 
Or  sunk  in  distance  undefined, 
Still  as  our  devious  course  inclined, 
— And  oft  we  paused,  and  look'd  behind. 

One  little  cloud,  and  only  one, 
Seem'd  the  pure  offspring  of  the  sun, 
Flung  from  his  orb  to  show  us  here 
What  clouds  adorn  his  hemisphere ; 
Unmoved,  unchanging,  in  the  gale, 
That  bore  the  rest  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Whose  shadowy  shapes,  with  lights  around, 
Like  living  motions,  swept  the  ground, 


THE    LITTLE    CLOUD.  32j 


This  little  cloud,  and  this  alone, 

Long  in  the  highest  ether  shone  ; 

Gay  as  a  warrior's  banner  spread, 

Its  sunward  margin  ruby-red, 

Green,  purple,  gold,  and  every  hue 

That  glitters  in  the  morning  dew, 

Or  glows  along  the  rainbow's  form, 

— The  apparition  of  the  storm. 

Deep  in  its  bosom,  diamond-bright, 

Behind  a  fleece  of  pearly  white, 

It  seem'd  a  secret  glory  dwelt, 

Whose  presence,  while  unseen,  was  felt ; 

Like  Beauty's  eye,  in  slumber  hid 

Beneath  a  half-transparent  lid, 

From  whence  a  sound,  a  touch,  a  breath, 

Might  startle  it, — as  life  from  death. 

Looks,  words,  emotions  of  surprise, 
Welcomed  the  stranger  to  our  eyes  : 
Was  it  the  phoenix,  that  from  earth 
In  flames  of  incense  sprang  to  birth  ? 
Had  ocean  from  his  lap  let  fly 
His  loveliest  halcyon  through  the  sky  ? 
No : — while  we  gazed,  the  pageant  grew 
A  nobler  object  to  our  view ; 
We  deem'd,  if  heaven  with  earth  would  hold 
Communion,  as  in  days  of  old, 
Such,  on  his  journey  down  the  sphere, 
Benignant  Raphael  might  appear, 
In  splendid  mystery  conceal'd, 
Yet  by  his  rich  disguise  reveal' d  : 
— That  buoyant  vapour,  in  mid-air, 
An  angel  in  its  folds  might  bear, 
Who,  through  the  curtain  of  his  shrine, 
Betray'd  his  lineaments  divine. 
The  wild,  the  warm  illusion  stole, 
Like  inspiration,  o'er  the  soul, 
Till  thought  was  rapture,  language  hung 
Silent  but  trembling  on  the  tongue  ; 


328  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Scowl  on  Man's  passage  to  the  tomb. 
— Not  so  : — I  feel  I  have  a  heart 
Blessings  to  share,  improve,  impart, 
In  blithe,  severe,  or  pensive  mood, 
At  home,  abroad,  in  solitude, 
Whatever  clouds  are  on  the  wing, 
Whatever  day  the  seasons  bring. 
That  is  true  happiness  below, 
Which  conscience  cannot  turn  to  wo ; 
And  though  such  happiness  depends 
Neither  on  clouds,  nor  days,  nor  friends, 
When  friends,  and  days,  and  clouds  unite, 
And  kindred  chords  are  tuned  aright, 
The  harmonies  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Through  eye,  ear,  intellect,  give  birth 
To  joys  too  exquisite  to  last, 
— And  yet  more  exquisite  when  past ! 
When  the  soul  summons  by  a  spell 
The  ghosts  of  pleasures  round  her  cell, 
In  saintlier  forms  than  erst  they  wore, 
And  smiles  benigner  than  before, 
Each  loved,  lamented  scene  renews, 
With  warmer  touches,  tenderer  hues  ; 
Recalls  kind  words  for  ever  flown, 
But  echoed  in  a  soften'd  tone  ; 
Wakes,  with  new  pulses  in  the  breast, 
Feelings  forgotten  or  at  rest ; 
— The  thought  how  fugitive  and  fair, 
How  dear  and  precious  such  things  were  ! 
That  thought,  with  gladness  more  refined, 
Deep  and  transporting,  thrills  the  mind, 
Than  all  those  pleasures  of  an  hour, 
When  most  the  soul  confess'd  their  power. 

Bliss  in  possession  will  not  last ; 
Remember'd  joys  are  never  past ; 
At  once  the  fountain,  stream,  and  sea, 
They  were, — they  are, — they  yet  shall  be. 


ABDALLAH    AND    SABAT. 


ABDALLAH  AND  SABAT.* 

From  West  Arabia  to  Bochara  came 

A  noble  youth,  Abdallah  was  his  name  ; 

Who  journey'd  through  the  various  East  to  find 

New  forms  of  man,  in  feature,  habit,  mind  ; 

Where  Tartar-hordes  through  nature's  pastures  run, 

A  race  of  Centaurs, — horse  and  rider  one  ; 

Where  the  soft  Persian  maid  the  breath  inhales 

Of  love-sick  roses,  woo'd  by  nightingales  ; 

Where  India's  grim  array  of  idols  seem 

The  rabble-phantoms  of  a  maniac's  dream: 

— Himself  the  flowery  path  of  trespass  trod, 

Which  the  false  Prophet  deck'd  to  lure  from  God. 

But  He,  who  changed,  into  the  faith  of  Paul, 

The  slaughter-breathing  enmity  of  Saul, 

Vouchsafed  to  meet  Abdallah  by  the  way  : 

No  miracle  of  light  eclipsed  the  day  ; 

No  vision  from  the  eternal  world,  nor  sound 

Of  awe  and  wonder  smote  him  to  the  ground  ; 

All  mild  and  calm,  with  power  till  then  unknown, 

The  gospel-glory  through  his  darkness  shone; 

A  still  small  whisper,  only  heard  within, 

Convinced  the  trembling  penitent  of  sin; 

And  Jesus,  whom  the  Infidel  abhorr'd, 

The  Convert  now  invoked,  and  call'd  him  Lord. 

Escaping  from  the  lewd  Impostor's  snare, 

As  flits  a  bird  released  through  boundless  air. 

And.  soaring  up  the  pure  blue  ether,  sings, 

— So  rose  his  Spirit  on  exulting  \* 

But  love,  joy,  peace,  the  Christian's  bliss  below, 

Are  deeply  mingled  in  a  cup  of  wo, 


*  See  Buchanan's  "Christian   Researches  in  India,"'  for  the  martyrdom  of 
Abdallah,  and  ihe  conversion  and  labours  of  Sabat. 

2b* 


330  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Which  none  can  pass  : — he,  counting  all  things  loss 
For  his  Redeemer,  gladly  bore  the  cross : 
Soon  call'd,  with  life,  to  lay  that  burden  down, 
In  the  first  fight  he  won  the  Martyr's  crown. 
Abdallah's  friend  was  Sabat ; — one  of  those 
Whom  love  estranged  transforms  to  bitterest  foes  : 
From  persecution  to  that  friend  he  fled  ; 
But  Sabat  pour'd  reproaches  on  his  head, 
Spurn'd  like  a  leprous  plague  the  prostrate  youth, 
And  hated  him  as  falsehood  hates  the  truth ; 
Yet  first  with  sophistry  and  menace  tried 
To  turn  him  from  "  the  faithful  word"  aside ; 
All  failing,  old  esteem  to  rancour  turn'd, 
With  Mahomet's  own  reckless  rage  he  burn'd. 
A  thousand  hideous  thoughts  like  fiends,  possess'd 
The  Pandemonium  of  the  Bigot's  breast, 
Whose  fires,  enkindled  from  the  infernal  lake, 
Abdallah's  veins,  unsluiced,  alone  could  slake. 

The  victim,  dragg'd  to  slaughter  by  his  friend, 
Witness'd  a  good  confession  to  the  end. 
Bochara  pour'd  her  people  forth,  to  gaze 
Upon  the  direst  scene  the  world  displays, 
The  blood  of  innocence  by  treason  spilt, 
The  reeking  triumph  of  deep-branded  guilt : 
— Bochara  pour'd  her  people  forth,  to  eye 
The  loveliest  spectacle  beneath  the  sky, 
The  look  with  which  a  Martyr  yields  his  breath, 

—The  resurrection  of  the  soul  in  death. 

1  Renounce  the  Nazarene  !"  the  headsman  cries, 
And  flash'd  the  unstain'd  falchion  in  his  eyes : 
"  No  ! — be  his  name  by  heaven  and  earth  adored !" 
He  said,  and  gave  his  right  hand  to  the  sword. 
"  Renounce  Him,  who  forsakes  thee  thus  bereft ;" 
He  wept,  but  spake  not,  and  resign'd  his  left. 
"  Renounce  Him  now,  who  will  not,  cannot  save  :" 
He  kneel'd,  like  Stephen,  look'd  beyond  the  grave, 
And,  while  the  dawn  of  heaven  around  him  broke, 

Bow'd  his  meek  head  to  the  dissevering-  stroke: 


ABDALLAH    AND    SABAT.  331 

Out-cast  on  earth  a  mangled  body  lay  ; 
A  spirit  enter'd  Paradise  that  day. 

But  where  is  Sabat  ? — Conscience-struck  he  stands, 
With  eye  of  agony,  and  fast-lock'd  hands. 
Abdallah,  in  the  moment  to  depart, 
Had  turn'd,  and  look'd  the  traitor  through  the  heart : 
It  smote  him  like  a  judgment  from  above, 
That  gentle  look  of  wrong'd,  forgiving  love  ! 
Then  hatred  vanished  ;   suddenly  repress'd 
Were  the  strange  flames  of  passion  in  his  breast ; 
Nought  but  the  smouldering  ashes  of  despair, 
Blackness  of  darkness,  death  of  death,  were  there. 
Ere  long,  wild  whirlwinds  of  remorse  arise  ; 
He  flies, — from  all  except  himself  he  flies, 
And  a  low  voice  for  ever  thrilling  near, 
The  voice  of  blood  which  none  but  he  can  hear. 

He  fled  from  guilt ;  but  guilt  and  he  were  one, 
A  Spirit  seeking  rest  and  finding  none; 
Visions  of  horror  haunted  him  by  night, 
Y*et  darkness  was  less  terrible  than  light; 
From  dreams  of  wo  when  startled  nature  broke, 
To  woes  that  were  not  dreams  the  wretch  awoke. 
Forlorn  he  ranged  through  India,  till  the  Power, 
That  met  Abdallah  in  a  happier  hour, 
Arrested  Sabat:  through  his  soul  he  felt 
The  word  of  truth  ;  his  heart  began  to  melt, 
And  yielded  slowly,  as  cold  Winter  yields 
When  the  warm  Spring  comes  flushing  o'er  the  fields  ; 
Then  first  a  tear  of  gladness  swcll'd  his  eye, 
Then  first  his  bosom  heaved  a  healthful  sigh; 
That  bosom,  parch'd  as  A  trie's  desert  land; 
That  eye,  a  flint-stone  in  the  burning  sand. 
—  Peace,  pardon,  hope,  eternal  joy,  reveal'd, 
Humbled  his  heart :   before  the  cross  he  kneel'd, 
Look'd  up  to  Him  whom  once  he  pierced,  and  bore 
The  name  of  ( 'hrist  which  he  blasphemed  before. 
— Was  Sabat  then  subdued  by  love  or  fear? 
And  who  shall  vouch  that  he  was  not  sincere  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Now  with  a  Convert's  zeal  his  ardent  mind 
Glow'd  for  the  common  weal  of  all  mankind  ; 
Yet  with  intenser  faith  the  Arabian  pray'd, 
When  homeward  thought  thro'  childhood's  Eden  stray'd. 
— There,  in  the  lap  of  Yemen's  happiest  vale, 
The  shepherds'  tents  are  waving  to  the  gale  ; 
The  Patriarch  of  their  tribe,  his  sire,  he  sees 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  ambrosial  trees  ; 
His  Sisters,  from  the  fountain  in  the  rock, 
Pour  the  cool  sparkling  water  to  their  flock ; 
His  Brethren,  rapt  on  steeds  and  camels,  roam 
O'er  wild  and  mountain,  all  the  land  their  home : 
— Thither  he  long'd  to  send  that  book,  unseal'd, 
Whose  words  are  life,  whose  leaves  his  wounds  had  heal'd  ; 
That  Ishmael,  living  by  his  sword  and  bow, 
Might  thus  again  the  God  of  Abraham  know ; 
And  Meccan  pilgrims  to  Caaba's  shrine, 
Like  locusts  marching  in  perpetual  line, 
Might  quit  the  broad,  to  choose  the  narrow  path, 
That  leads  to  glory,  and  reclaims  from  wrath. 
Fired  with  the  hope  to  bless  his  native  soil, 
Years  roll'd  unfelt,  in  consecrated  toil, 
To  mould  the  truths  which  holy  writers  teach 
In  the  loved  accents  of  his  mother's  speech ; 
While,  like  the  sun,  that  always  to  the  west 
Leads  the  bright  day,  his  fervent  spirit  press'd, 
Thither  a  purer  light  from  heaven  to  dart, 
— The  only  light  that  reaches  to  the  heart ; 
Whose  deserts  blossom  where  its  beams  are  shed, 
The  blind  behold  them,  and  they  raise  the  dead. 
Nor  by  Arabia  were  his  labours  bound, 
To  Persian  lips  he  taught  "  the  joyful  sound." 
Would  he  had  held  unchanged  that  high  career ! 
— But  Sabat  fell  like  lightning  from  his  sphere  : 
Once  with  the  morning  stars  God's  works  he  sung ; 
Anon  a  Serpent,  with  envenom'd  tongue, 
Like  that  apostate  fiend  who  tempted  Eve, 
Gifted  with  speech, — he  spake  but  to  deceive. 


ABDALLAH    AND    SABAT. 


Let  pity  o'er  his  errors  cast  a  veil ! 
Haste  to  the  sequel  of  his  tragic  tale. 
Sabat  became  a  vagabond  on  earth ; 
— He  chose  the  Sinner's  way,  the  Scorner's  mirth  ; 
Now  feign'd  contrition  with  obdurate  tears, 
Then  wore  a  bravery  that  betray'd  his  fears  ; 
With  oaths  and  curses  now  his  Lord  denied, 
And  strangled  guilty  shame  with  desperate  pride ; 
While  inly-rack'd,  he  proved  what  culprits  feel, 
When  conscience  breaks  remembrance  on  the  wheel. 
At  length  an  outlaw  through  the  orient  isles, 
Snared  in  the  subtilty  of  his  own  wiles, 
He  perish'd  in  an  unexpected  hour, 
To  glut  the  vengeance  of  barbarian  power : 
With  sackcloth  shrouded,  to  a  millstone  bound, 
And  in  th'  abysses  of  the  ocean  drown'd. 
— Oh  !  what  a  plunge  into  the  dark  was  there  ! 
How  ended  life  ? — In  blasphemy,  or  prayer? 
The  winds  are  fled  that  heard  his  parting  cry, 
The  waves  that  stifled  it  make  no  reply. 

When,  at  the  resurrection  of  the  Just, 
Earth  shall  yield  back  Abdallah  from  the  dust, 
The  sea,  like  rising  clouds,  give  up  its  dead, 
Then  from  the  deep  shall  Sabat  lift  his  head. 
With  waking  millions  round  the  judgment-seat, 
Once,  and  but  once  again,  those  twain  shall  meet, 
To  part  for  ever, — or  to  part  no  more  : 
— But  who  th'  eternal  secret  shall  explore, 
When  Justice  seals  the  gates  of  heaven  and  hell  ? 
The  rest — that  day,  that  day  alone,  will  tell. 

1821. 


334  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS. 

Flowers,  wherefore  do  ye  bloom  ? 

« — We  strew  thy  pathway  to  the  tomb. 

Stars,  wherefore  do  ye  rise  1 

— To  light  thy  spirit  to  the  skies. 

Fair  Moon,  why  dost  thou  wane  ? 

—That  I  may  wax  again. 

O  Sun,  what  makes  thy  beams  so  bright  ? 

— The  Word  that  said, — "Let  there  be  light." 

Planets,  what  guides  you  in  your  course  ? 

— Unseen,  unfelt,  unfailing  force. 

Nature,  whence  sprang  thy  glorious  frame  ? 

— My  Maker  call'd  me,  and  I  came. 

O  Light,  thy  subtle  essence  who  may  know  ? 

— Ask  not ;  for  all  things  but  myself  I  show. 

What  is  yon  arch  which  everywhere  I  see  ? 

— The  sign  of  omnipresent  Deity. 

Where  rests  the  horizon's  all-embracing  zone  ? 

— Where  earth,  God's  footstool,  touches  heaven,  his  throne. 

Ye  clouds,  what  bring  ye  in  your  train  ? 

— God's  embassies, — storm,  lightning,  hail,  or  rain. 

Winds,  whence  and  whither  do  ye  blow  ? 

— Thou  must  be  born  again  to  know. 

Bow  in  the  cloud,  what  token  dost  thou  bear  ? 

— That  Justice  still  cries  "  strike"  and  Mercy  "  spare." 

Dews  of  the  morning,  wherefore  were  ye  given  ? 

— To  shine  on  earth,  then  rise  to  heaven. 

Rise,  glitter,  break  ;  yet,  Bubble,  tell  me  why  ? 

— To  show  the  course  of  all  beneath  the  sky. 

Stay,  Meteor,  stay  thy  falling  fire  ! 

— No,  thus  shall  all  the  host  of  heaven  expire. 

Ocean,  what  law  thy  chainless  waves  confined  ? 

— That  which  in  Reason's  limits  holds  thy  mind. 


THE    ALPS.  335 


Time,  whither  dost  thou  flee  ? 

— I  travel  to  Eternity. 

Eternity,  what  art  thou, — say  ? 

— Time  past,  time  present,  time  to  come, — to-day. 

Ye  Dead,  where  can  your  dwelling  be  ? 

— The  house  for  all  the  living : — come  and  see. 

O  Life,  what  is  thy  breath? 

— A  vapour  lost  in  death. 

O  Death,  how  ends  thy  strife  ? 

— In  everlasting  life. 

O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

— Ask  Him  who  rose  again  for  me. 


THE  ALPS : 

A    REVERIE. 

Part  I.     Day. 


The  mountains  of  this  glorious  land 

Are  conscious  beings  to  mine  eye, 
When  at  the  break  of  day  they  stand 

Like  giants,  looking  through  the  sky 
To  hail  the  sun's  unrisen  car, 

That  gilds  their  diadems  of  snow ; 
While  one  by  one,  as  star  by  star, 

Their  peaks  in  ether  glow. 

Their  silent  presence  fills  my  soul, 

When,  to  the  horizontal  ray, 
The  many-tinctured  vapours  roll 

In  evanescent  wreaths  away, 
And  leave  them  naked  on  the  scene, 

The  emblems  of  eternity, 
The  same  as  they  have  ever  been, 

And  shall  for  ever  be. 


336  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Yet  through  the  valle}*-  while  I  range, 

Their  cliffs,  like  images  in  dreams, 
Colour,  and  shape,  and  station  change  ; 

Here  crags  and  caverns,  woods  and  streams, 
And  seas  of  adamantine  ice, 

With  gardens,  vineyards,  fields  embraced, 
Open  a  way  to  Paradise, 

Through  all  the  splendid  waste. 

The  goats  are  hanging  on  the  rocks, 

Wide  through  their  pastures  roam  the  herds  ; 
Peace  on  the  uplands  feeds  her  flocks, 

Till  suddenly  the  king  of  birds 
Pouncing  a  lamb,  they  start  for  fear ; 

He  bears  his  bleating  prize  on  high ; 
The  well-known  plaint  his  nestlings  hear, 

And  raise  a  ravening  cry. 

The  sun  in  morning  freshness  shines ; 

At  noon  behold  his  orb  o'ercast ; 
Hollow  and  dreary  o'er  the  pines, 

Like  distant  ocean,  moans  the  blast ; 
The  mountains  darken  at  the  sound, 

Put  on  their  armour,  and  anon, 
In  panoply  of  clouds  wrapt  round, 

Their  forms  from  sight  are  gone. 

Hark  !  war  in  heaven  ! — the  battle-shout 

Of  thunder  rends  the  echoing  air  ; 
Lo  !  war  in  heaven  ! — thick-flashing  out 

Through  torrent-rains  red  lightnings  glare, 
As  though  the  Alps,  with  mortal  ire, 

At  once  a  thousand  voices  raised, 
And  with  a  thousand  swords  of  fire, 

At  once  in  conflict  blazed. 


THE    ALPS.  337 


Part  II.     Night. 


Come,  golden  Evening,  in  the  west 

Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun, 
And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 

O'er  all  the  mountain-tops  : — 'tis  done  ; 
The  deluge  ceases ;  bold  and  bright 

The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hill ; 
Down  sinks  the  sun  ;  on  presses  night ; 

— Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still. 

There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit ; — spread 

The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet ; 
And  mark  how  calmly,  overhead, 

The  stars  like  saints  in  glory  meet: 
While  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 

Methinks  I  muse  on  Nature's  tomb, 
And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 

Step  through  the  gloom. 

All  in  a  moment,  crash  on  crash, 

From  precipice  to  precipice, 
An  avalanche's  ruins  dash 

Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss  ; 
Invisible,  the  ear  alone 

Follows  the  uproar  till  it  dies ; 
Echo  on  echo,  groan  for  groan, 

From  deep  to  deep  replies. 

Silence  again  the  darkness  seals, — 

Darkness  that  may  be  felt ; — but  soon 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 

The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon  ; 
In  half-eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn, 

Yet,  o'er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme, 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a  morn 

With  her  awakening  beam. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Ha  !  at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 

Unreal  mockeries  appear ; 
With  blacker  shadows,  ghastlier  lights, 

Enlarging  as  she  climbs  the  sphere ; 
A  crowd  of  apparitions  pale  ! 

I  hold  my  breath  in  chill  suspense, 
— They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail, — 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 

I  breathe  again,  I  freely  breathe  ; 

Lake  of  Geneva  !  thee  I  trace, 
Like  Dian's  crescent  far  beneath, 

And  beautiful  as  Dian's  face. 
Pride  of  this  land  of  liberty  ! 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I  love ; 
Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  thee, 

Looks  fairer  than  above. 

Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I  stray, 

The  trance  of  poesy  is  o'er, 
And  I  am  here  at  dawn  of  day, 

Gazing  on  mountains  as  before  ; 
For  all  the  strange  mutations  wrought 

Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind ; 
Thus,  in  the  fairy-land  of  thought, 

Whate'er  I  seek  I  find. 

Yet,  O  ye  everlasting  hills  ! 

Buildings  of  God  not  made  with  hands, 
Whose  word  performs  whate'er  He  wills, 

Whose  word,  though  ye  shall  perish,  stands 
Can  there  be  eyes  that  look  on  you, 

Till  tears  of  rapture  made  them  dim, 
Nor  in  his  works  the  Maker  view, 

Then  lose  his  works  in  Him  ? 

By  me,  when  I  behold  Him  not, 
Or  love  Him  not  when  I  behold, 

Be  all  I  ever  knew  forgot ; 

My  pulse  stand  still,  my  heart  grow  cold  ; 


THE    BRIDAL    AND    THE    BURIAL.  339 

Transform'd  to  ice,  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 

On  yonder  cliff  my  form  be  seen, 
That  all  may  ask,  but  none  reply, 

What  my  offence  hath  been. 

1822. 


THE  BRIDAL  AND  THE  BURIAL. 

"Blessed  is  the  bride  whom  the  sun  shines  on  ; 
Blessed  is  the  corpse  which  the  rain  rains  on." 

I  saw  thee  young-  and  beautiful, 

I  saw  thee  rich  and  gay, 

In  the  first  blush  of  womanhood, 

Upon  thy  wedding-day  : 

The  church-bells  rang, 

And  the  little  children  sang, — 

"  Flowers,  flowers,  kiss  her  feet ; 

Sweets  to  the  sweet ; 

The  winter's  past,  the  rains  are  gone ; 

Blessed  is  the  bride  whom  the  sun  shines  on." 

I  saw  thee  poor  and  desolate, 

I  saw  thee  fade  away, 

In  broken-hearted  widowhood, 

Before  thy  locks  were  gray  ; 

The  death-bell  rang, 

And  the  little  children  sang, — 

"  Lilies,  dress  her  winding-sheet ; 

Sweets  to  the  sweet ; 

The  summer's  past,  the  sunshine  gone ; 

Blessed  is  the  corpse  which  the  rain  rains  on.' 

"  Blessed  is  the  bride  whom  the  sun  shines  on ; 
Blessed  is  the  corpse  which  the  rain  rains  on." 


340  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


YOUTH  RENEWED. 

Spring-flowers,  spring-birds,  spring-breezes, 

Are  felt,  and  heard,  and  seen  ; 
Light  trembling  transport  seizes 

My  heart, — with  sighs  between  ; 
These  old  enchantments  fill  the  mind 
With  scenes  and  seasons  far  behind ; 
Childhood,  its  smiles  and  tears, 
Youth,  with  its  flush  of  years, 
Its  morning  clouds  and  dewy  prime, 
More  exquisitely  touch'd  by  Time. 

Fancies  again  are  springing, 

Like  May-flowers  in  the  vales  ; 
While  hopes,  long  lost,  are  singing, 

From  thorns,  like  nightingales  ; 
And  kindly  spirits  stir  my  blood, 
Like  vernal  airs  that  curl  the  flood : 
There  falls  to  manhood's  lot 
A  joy,  which  youth  has  not, 
A  dream  more  beautiful  than  truth, 
— Returning  Spring  renewing  Youth. 

Thus  sweetly  to  surrender 

The  present  for  the  past ; 
In  sprightly  mood,  yet  tender, 

Life's  burden  down  to  cast, 
— This  is  to  taste,  from  stage  to  stage, 
Youth  on  the  lees  refined  by  age  : 
Like  wine  well  kept  and  long, 
Heady,  nor  harsh,  nor  strong, 
With  every  annual  cup,  is  quaff'd 
A  richer,  purer,  mellower  draught. 

Harrow  gate,  1825. 


THE    DAISY    IN    INDIA.  341 


THE  DAISY  IN  INDIA. 

The  9implc  history  of  these  stanzas  is  the  following.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  scientific 
botanist,  residing  near  Sheffield,  had  sent  a  package  of  sundry  kinds  of  British 
seeds  to  the  learned  and  venerable  Doctor  William  Cakey,  one  of  the  first 
Baptist  Missionaries  to  India,  where  they  had  established  themselves  in  the 
small  Danish  settlement  of  Serampore,  in  the  province  of  Bengal.  Some  of 
the  seeds  had  been  enclosed  in  a  bag,  containing  a  portion  of  their  native 
earth.  In  March,  1821,  a  letter  of  acknowledgment  was  received  by  his  corres- 
pondent from  the  Doctor,  who  was  himself  well  skilled  in  botany,  and  had  a 
garden  rich  in  plants,  both  tropical  and  European.  In  this  enclosure,  he  was 
wont  to  spend  an  hour  every  morning,  before  he  entered  upon  those  labours 
and  studies  which  have  rendered  his  name  illustrious  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
as  one  of  the  most  accomplished  of  oriental  scholars,  and  a  translator  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures  into  many  of  the  Hindoo  languages.  In  the  letter  afore-men- 
tioned, which  was  shown  to  me,  the  good  man  says, — "That  I  might  be  sure 
not  to  lose  any  part  of  your  valuable  present,  I  shook  the  bag  over  a  patch  of 
earth  in  a  shady  place  :  on  visiting  which,  a  few  days  afterwards,  I  found 
springing  up,  to  my  inexpressible  delight,  a  bellis  verennis  of  our  English 
pastures.  1  know  not  that  I  ever  enjoyed,  since  leaving  Europe,  a  simple 
pleasure  so  exquisite  as  the  sight  of  this  English  Daisy  afforded  me  ;  not 
having  seen  one  for  upwards  of  thirty  years,  and  never  expecting  to  see  one 
again." 

On  the  perusal  of  this  passage,  the  following  stanzas  seemed  to  spring  up  almost 
spontaneously  in  my  mind,  as  the  "little  English  Flower"  in  the  good  Doctor's 
garden,  whom  I  imagined  to  be  thus  addressing  it  on  its  sudden  appearance. — 
With  great  care  and  attention  he  was  able  to  perpetuate  "the  Daisy  in  India," 
as  an  annual  only,  raised  by  seed  from  season  to  season.  It  may  be  observed 
that,  amidst  the  luxuriance  of  tropical  vegetation,  there  are  comparatively 
few  small  plants,  like  the  multifarious  progeny  of  our  native  Flora. 

There  is  a  beautiful  coincidence  between  a  fact  and  a  fiction  in  this  circum- 
stance. Among  the  many  natural  and  striking  expedients  by  which  the  inge- 
nious author  of  Robinson  Crusoe  contrives  to  supply  his  hero  on  the  desolate 
island  with  necessaries  and  comforts  of  life,  not  indigenous,  we  are  informed, 
that  Crusoe  one  day,  long  after  his  shipwreck  and  residence  there,  perceived 
some  delicate  blades  of  vegetation  peeping  forth,  after  the  rains,  on  a  patch  of 
ground  near  his  dwelling-place.  Not  knowing  what  they  were,  he  watched 
their  growth  from  day  to  day,  till  he  ascertained,  to  his  "inexpressible  delight," 
that  they  were  plants  of  some  kind  of  English  corn.  He  then  recollected 
having  shaken  out  on  that  spot  the  dusty  refuse  of  "a  bag"  which  had  been 
used  to  hold  grain  for  the  fowls  on  shipboard.  "  With  great  care  and  atten- 
tion," he  was  enabled  to  preserve  the  precious  stalks  till  the  full  corn  ripened 
in  the  ear.  He  then  reaped  the  first  fruits  of  this  spontaneous  harvest,  sowed 
them  again,  and,  till  his  release  from  captivity  there,  ate  bread  in  his  lonely 
abode, 

"  Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main." 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 
My  mother-country's  white  and  red, 
In  rose  or  lily,  till  this  hour, 
Never  to  me  such  beauty  spread : 

29* 


342  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Transplanted  from  thine  island-bed, 
A  treasure  in  a  grain  of  earth, 
Strange  as  a  spirit  from  the  dead. 
Thine  embryo  sprang  to  birth. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower  ! 
Whose  tribes,  beneath  our  natal  skies, 
Shut  close  their  leaves  while  vapours  lower; 
But,  when  the  sun's  gay  beams  arise, 
With  unabash'd  but  modest  eyes, 
Follow  his  motion  to  the  west, 
Nor  cease  to  gaze  till  daylight  dies, 
Then  fold  themselves  to  rest. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 
To  this  resplendent  hemisphere, 
Where  Flora's  giant  offspring  tower 
In  gorgeous  liveries  all  the  year : 
Thou,  only  thou,  art  little  here, 
Like  worth  unfriended  and  unknown, 
Yet  to  my  British  heart  more  dear 
Than  all  the  torrid  zone. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower  ! 
Of  early  scenes  beloved  by  me, 
While  happy  in  my  father's  bower, 
Thou  shalt  the  blithe  memorial  be ; 
The  fairy  sports  of  infancy, 
Youth's  golden  age,  and  manhood's  prime, 
Home,  country,  kindred,  friends, — with  thee, 
I  find  in  this  far  clime. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 
I'll  rear  thee  Avith  a  trembling  hand : 
Oh,  for  the  April  sun  and  shower, 
The  sweet  May  dews  of  that  fair  land, 
Where  Daisies,  thick  as  star-light,  stand 
In  every  walk ! — that  here  may  shoot 
Thy  scions,  and  thy  buds  expand, 
A  hundred  from  one  root. 


THE    PILGRIM. 


Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower  ! 
To  me  the  pledge  of  hope  unseen : 
When  sorrow  would  my  soul  o'erpower, 
For  joys  that  were,  or  might  have  been, 
I'll  call  to  mind,  how,  fresh  and  green, 
I  saw  thee  waking  from  the  dust ; 
Then  turn  to  heaven  with  brow  serene, 
And  place  in  God  my  trust. 

1822. 


THE  PILGRIM. 


How  blest  the  Pilgrim,  who  in  trouble 

Can  lean  upon  a  bosom-friend  ; 

Strength,  courage,  hope  with  him  redouble, 

When  foes  assail,  or  griefs  impend ; 

Care  flees  before  his  footsteps,  straying, 

At  daybreak,  o'er  the  purple  heath  ; 

He  plucks  the  wild  flowers  round  him  playing, 

And  binds  their  beauty  in  a  wreath. 

More  dear  to  him  the  fields  and  mountains, 
When  with  his  friend  abroad  he  roves, 
Rests  in  the  shade  near  sunny  fountains, 
Or  talks  by  moonlight  through  the  groves : 
For  him  the  vine  expands  its  clusters, 
Spring  wakes  for  him  her  woodland  quire  ; 
Yea,  when  the  storm  of  winter  blusters, 
'Tis  summer  round  his  evening  fire. 

In  good  old  age  serenely  dying, 

When  all  he  loved  forsakes  his  view, 

Sweet  is  affection's  voice  replying, 

"  I  follow  soon,"  to  his  "  Adieu  !" 

Even  then,  though  earthly  ties  are  riven, 

The  spirit's  union  will  not  end  ; 

— Happy  the  man,  whom  Heaven  hath  given, 

In  life  and  death,  a  faithful  friend. 


344  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

What  bird,  in  beauty,  flight,  or  song, 

Can  with  the  Bard  compare, 
Who  sang  as  sweet,  and  soar'd  as  strong, 

As  ever  child  of  air  ? 

His  plume,  his  note,  his  form,  could  Burns 
For  whim  or  pleasure  change  ; 

He  was  not  one,  but  all  by  turns, 
With  transmigration  strange. 

The  Blackbird,  oracle  of  spring, 

When  flow'd  his  moral  lay  ; 
The  Swallow  wheeling  on  the  wing, 

Capriciously  at  play  : 

The  Humming-bird,  from  bloom  to  bloom, 

Inhaling  heavenly  balm ; 
The  Raven,  in  the  tempest's  gloom ; 

The  Halcyon,  in  the  calm  : 

In  "  auld  Kirk  Alloway,"  the  Owl, 

At  witching  time  of  night ; 
By  "bonnie  Doon,"  the  earliest  Fowl 

That  caroll'd  to  the  light. 

He  was  the  Wren  amidst  the  grove, 

When  in  his  homely  vein ; 
At  Bannockburn  the  Bird  of  Jove, 

With  thunder  in  his  train : 

The  Woodlark,  in  his  mournful  hours ; 

The  Goldfinch,  in  his  mirth  ; 
The  Thrush,  a  spendthrift  of  his  powers, 

Enrapturing  heaven  and  earth ; 

The  Swan,  in  majesty  and  grace, 
Contemplative  and  still : 


1820. 


THE    STRANGER    AND    HIS    FRIEND.  345 

But  roused, — no  Falcon,  in  the  chase, 
Could  like  his  satire  kill. 

The  Linnet  in  simplicity, 

In  tenderness  the  Dove  ; 
But  more  than  all  beside  was  he 

The  Nightingale  in  love. 

Oh  !  had  he  never  stoop'd  to  shame, 

Nor  lent  a  charm  to  vice, 
How  had  Devotion  loved  to  name 

That  Bird  of  Paradise  ! 

Peace  to  the  dead ! — In  Scotia's  choir 

Of  Minstrels  great  and  small, 
He  sprang  from  his  spontaneous  fire, 

The  Phoenix  of  them  all. 


THE  STRANGER  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

"Ye  have  done  it  unto  me."— Matt.  xxv.  40. 

A  poor  wayfaring  Man  of  grief 

Hath  often  cross'd  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 

That  I  could  never  answer  "  Nay :" 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name, 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came, 
Yet  was  there  something  in  his  eye 
That  won  my  love,  I  knew  not  why. 

Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  enter' d  ; — not  a  word  he  spake ; — 
Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread ; 

I  gave  him  all ;  he  bless'd  it,  brake, 
And  ate, — but  gave  me  part  again  ; 
Mine  was  an  Angel's  portion  then, 
For  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 
That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 


34G  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


I  spied  him,  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock  ;  his  strength  was  gone ; 

The  heedless  water  mock'd  his  thirst, 
He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on  : 

I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drain'd  my  cup, 

Dipt,  and  return'd  it  running  o'er  ; 

I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 

'Twas  night ;  the  floods  were  out ;  it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof; 
I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  him  welcome  to  my  roof; 
I  warm'd,  I  clothed,  I  cheer'd  my  guest, 
Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 
Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seem'd 
In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dream'd. 

Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 
I  found  him  by  the  highway-side  :  • 

I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath, 
Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 

Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  he  was  heal'd ; 

— I  had  myself  a  wound  conceal'd  ; 

But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 

And  Peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 

In  prison  I  saw  him  next,  condemn'd 
To  meet  a  traitor's  doom  at  morn ; 

The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemm'd, 

And  honour'd  him  midst  shame  and  scorn : 

My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try, 

He  ask'd  if  I  for  him  would  die  ; 

The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill, 

But  the  free  spirit  cried,  "I  will." 

Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view, 

The  Stranger  darted  from  disguise ; 

The  tokens  in  his  hands  I  knew, 
My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes  : 


FRIENDS. 


He  spake ;  and  my  poor  name  He  named  ; 
"  Of  me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed  : 
These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be ; 
Fear  not,  thou  didst  them  unto  Me." 

Scarboroti<rh,  December,  1826. 


FRIENDS. 

Friend  after  friend  departs  : 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts, 

That  finds  not  here  an  end : 
Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest, 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  Time, 

Beyond  this  vale  of  death, 
There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime, 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath, 
Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 
Whose  sparks  fly  upward  to  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown ; 
A  whole  eternity  of  love, 

Form'd  for  the  good  alone  ; 
And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 
Translated  to  that  happier  sphere. 

Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  pass'd  away, 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day  ; 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 
— They  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 


1894. 


348  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


A  THEME  FOR  A  POET. 
1814. 

Written  in  contemplation  of  a  Poem  on  the  Evangelization  of  one  of  the  most 
degraded  tribes  of  heathens.  This  the  Author  some  years  afterwards  attempt- 
ed, and  partly  executed,  in  "Greenland,"  in  five  cantos,  of  which  the  follow- 
ing were  the  opening  lines,  but  withdrawn,  as  inapplicable  to  the  unfinished 
work  when  it  was  published. 

Give  me  a  theme  to  grace  an  Angel's  tongue, 
A  theme  to  which  a  lyre  was  never  strung; 
Barbarian  hordes,  by  Satan's  craft  enthrall'd, 
From  chains  to  freedom,  guilt  to  glory  call'd; 
The  deeds  of  men  unfriended  and  unknown, 
Sent  forth  by  Him  who  loves  and  saves  his  own, 
With  faithful  toil  a  barren  land  to  bless, 
And  feed  his  flocks  amid  the  wilderness. 

These  lines  were  afterwards  adopted  as  a  motto  to  the  second  volume  of  the 
last  edition  of  Crantz's  Greenland,  including  the  history  of  the  Missions  of  the 
Moravian  Brethren  there,  which  was  begun  in  the  year  1733.  (See  also  the 
notes  to  "Greenland.") 

The  arrow  that  shall  lay  me  low, 

Was  shot  from  Death's  unerring  how, 

The  moment  of  my  breath  ; 

And  every  footstep  I  proceed, 

It  tracks  me  with  increasing  speed ; 

I  turn, — it  meets  me, — Death 

Has  given  such  impulse  to  that  dart, 

It  points  for  ever  at  my  heart. 

And  soon  of  me  it  must  be  said, 

That  I  have  lived,  that  I  am  dead ; 

Of  all  I  leave  behind, 

A  few  may  weep  a  little  while, 

Then  bless  my  memory  with  a  smile : 

What  monument  of  mind 

Shall  I  bequeath  to  deathless  Fame, 

That  after-times  may  love  my  name  ? 


A    THEME    FOR    A    POET.  3 l'J 

Let  Southey  sing  of  war's  alarms, 

The  pride  of  battle,  din  of  arms, 

The  glory  and  the  guilt, — 

Of  nations  barb'rously  enslaved, 

Of  realms  by  patriot  valour  saved, 

Of  blood  insanely  spilt, 

And  millions  sacrificed  to  fate, 

To  make  one  little  mortal  great. 

Let  Scott,  in  wilder  strains,  delight 

To  chant  the  Lady  and  the  Knight, 

The  tournament,  the  chase, 

The  wizard's  deed  without  a  name, 

Perils  by  ambush,  flood,  and  flame; 

Or  picturesquely  trace 

The  hills  that  form  a  world  on  high, 

The  lake  that  seems  a  downward  sky. 

Let  Byron,  with  untrembling  hand, 
Impetuous  foot,  and  fiery  brand 
Lit  at  the  flames  of  hell, 
Go  down  and  search  the  human  heart, 
Till  fiends  from  every  corner  start, 
Their  crimes  and  plagues  to  tell ; 
Then  let  him  fling  the  torch  away, 
And  sun  his  soul  in  heaven's  pure  day. 

Let  Wordsworth  weave,  in  mystic  rhyme 

Feelings  ineffably  sublime, 

And  sympathies  unknown ; 

Yet  so  our  yielding  breasts  enthral, 

His  Genius  shall  possess  us  all, 

His  thoughts  become  our  own, 

And  strangely  pleased,  we  start  to  find 

Such  hidden  treasures  in  our  mind. 

Let  Campbell's  sweeter  numbers  flow 
Through  every  change  of  joy  and  wo  ; 
Hope's  morning  dreams  display, 
The  Pennsylvanian  cottage  wild, 

30  


350  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  frenzy  of  O'Connor's  child, 
Or  Linden's  dreadful  day ; 
And  still  in  each  new  form  appear 
To  every  Muse  and  Grace  more  dear. 

Transcendent  Masters  of  the  lyre ! 
Not  to  your  honours  I  aspire  ; 
Humbler  yet  higher  views 
Have  touch'd  my  spirit  into  flame : 
The  pomp  of  fiction  I  disclaim ; 
Fair  Truth  !  be  thou  my  muse ; 
Reveal  in  splendour  deeds  obscure, 
Abase  the  proud,  exalt  the  poor. 

I  sing  the  men  who  left  their  home, 
Amidst  barbarian  hordes  to  roam, 
Who  land  and  ocean  cross'd, 
Led  by  a  load-star,  mark'd  on  high 
By  Faith's  unseen,  all-seeing  eye, — 
To  seek  and  save  the  lost ; 
Where'er  the  curse  on  Adam  spread, 
To  call  his  offspring  from  the  dead. 

Strong  in  the  great  Redeemer's  name, 
They  bore  the  cross,  despised  the  shame ; 
And,  like  their  Master  here, 
Wrestled  with  danger,  pain,  distress, 
Hunger,  and  cold,  and  nakedness, 
And  every  form  of  fear ; 
To  feel  his  love  their  only  joy, 
To  tell  that  love  their  sole  employ. 

O  Thou,  who  wast  in  Bethlehem  born, 

The  Man  of  sorrows  and  of  scorn, 

Jesus,  the  sinners'  Friend  ! 

— O  Thou,  enthroned  in  filial  right, 

Above  all  creature-power  and  might ; 

Whose  kingdom  shall  extend, 

Till  earth,  like  heaven,  thy  name  shall  fill, 

And  men,  like  angels,  do  thy  will : — 


NIGHT.  351 


1818. 


Thou,  whom  I  love,  but  cannot  see, 
My  Lord,  my  God  !  look  down  on  me  ; 
My  low  affections  raise  ; 
The  spirit  of  liberty  impart, 
Enlarge  my  soul,  inflame  my  heart, 
And,  while  I  spread  thy  praise, 
Shine  on  my  path,  in  mercy  shine, 
Prosper  my  work,  and  make  it  thine. 


NIGHT. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest ; 

How  sweet,  when  labours  close, 
To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 

The  curtain  of  repose, 
Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 
Down  on  our  own  delightful  bed  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  ; 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 
When  truth  that  is,  and  truth  that  seems, 

Mix  in  fantastic  strife  : 
Ah  !  visions,  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil ; 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 
Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 
Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 
That  poets  sang,  and  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  ; 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  memory,  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  years  ; 


352  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Hopes,  that  were  Angels  at  their  birth, 
But  died  when  young,  like  things  of  earth. 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch  ; 

O'er  ocean's  dark  expanse, 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 
That  brings  into  the  home-sick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care  ; 

Brooding  on  hours  misspent, 
To  see  the  spectre  of  Despair 

Come  to  our  lonely  tent ; 
Like  Brutus,  'midst  his  slumbering  host, 
Summon'd  to  die  by  Caesar's  ghost. 

Night  is  the  time  to  think ; 

When,  from  the  eye,  the  soul 
Takes  flight,  and,  on  the  utmost  brink 

Of  yonder  starry  pole, 
Discerns  beyond  the  abyss  of  night 
The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray ; 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away; 

So  will  his  followers  do, 
Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod, 
And  commune  there  alone  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  Death ; 

When  all  around  is  peace, 
Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath, 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease, 
Think  of  heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends ; — such  death  be  mine ! 

Harrowgate,  September,  1821. 


ASPIRATIONS    OF   YOUTH.  353 


ASPIRATIONS  OF  YOUTH. 

Higher,  higher  will  we  climb 

Up  the  mount  of  glory, 
That  our  names  may  live  through  time 

In  our  country's  story  ; 
Happy,  when  her  welfare  calls, 
He  who  conquers,  he  who  falls. 

Deeper,  deeper  let  us  toil 
In  the  mines  of  knowledge  ; 

Nature's  wealth  and  learning's  spoil 
Win  from  school  and  college  ; 

Delve  we  there  for  richer  gems 

Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

Onward,  onward  will  we  press 
Through  the  path  of  duty  ; 

Virtue  is  true  happiness, 
Excellence  true  beauty ; 

Minds  are  of  supernal  birth, 

Let  us  make  a  heaven  of  earth. 

Close  and  closer  then  we  knit 
Hearts  and  hands  together, 

Where  our  fire-side  comforts  sit 
In  the  wildest  weather  : 

Oh  !  they  wander  wide,  who  roam, 

For  the  joys  of  life,  from  home. 

Nearer,  nearer  bands  of  love 

Draw  our  souls  in  union, 
To  our  Father's  house  above, 

To  the  saints'  communion ; 
Thither  every  hope  ascend, 
There  may  all  our  labours  end. 


'JW 


354  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS-. 


A  HERMITAGE. 

Whose  is  this  humble  dwelling-place, 
The  flat  turf-roof  with  flowers  o'ergrown  ? 

Ah !  here  the  tenant's  name  I  trace, 
Moss-cover' d,  on  the  threshold  stone. 

Well,  he  has  peace  within,  and  rest, 
Though  nought  of  all  the  world  beside ; 

Yet,  stranger,  deem  not  him  unblest, 
Who  knows  not  avarice,  lust,  or  pride. 

Nothing  he  asks,  nothing  he  cares 
For  all  that  tempts  or  troubles  round  ; 

He  craves  no  feast,  no  finery  wears, 
Nor  once  o'ersteps  his  narrow  bound. 

No  need  of  light,  though  all  be  gloom, 
To  cheer  his  eye, — that  eye  is  blind ; 

No  need  of  fire  in  this  small  room, 
He  recks  not  tempest,  rain,  or  wind. 

No  gay  companions  here  ;  no  wife 

To  gladden  home  with  true-love  smiles ; 

No  children, — from  the  woes  of  life 
To  win  him  with  their  artless  wiles. 

Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow,  enter  here, 

Nor  throbbing  heart,  nor  aching  limb  ; 

No  sun,  no  moon,  no  stars  appear, 

And  man  and  brute  are  nought  to  him. 

This  dwelling  is  a  hermit's  cave, 
With  space  alone  for  one  poor  bed ; 

This  dwelling  is  a  mortal's  grave, 
Its  sole  inhabitant  is  dead. 


1822. 


INSCRIPTION    FOR    A    NEGRO    WOMAN. 


INSCRIPTION 

UNDER   THE    PICTURE    OF    AN    AGED   NEGRO    WOMAN. 

Art  thou  a  woman? — so  am  I ;  and  all 
That  woman  can  be,  I  have  been,  or  am ; 
A  daughter,  sister,  consort,  mother,  widow. 
Whiche'er  of  these  thou  art,  Oh  !  be  the  friend 
Of  one  who  is  what  thou  canst  never  be  ! 
Look  on  thyself,  thy  kindred,  home,  and  country, 
Then  fall  upon  thy  knees,  and  cry  "  Thank  God, 
An  English  woman  cannot  be  a  SLAVE  !" 

Art  thou  a  man? — Oh  !  I  have  known,  have  loved, 
And  lost,  all  that  to  woman  man  can  be  ; 
A  father,  brother,  husband,  son,  who  shared 
My  bliss  in  freedom,  and  my  wo  in  bondage. 
— A  childless  widow  now,  a  friendless  slave, 
What  shall  I  ask  of  thee,  since  I  have  nought 
To  lose  but  life's  sad  burden  :  nought  to  gain 
But  heaven's  repose  ? — these  are  beyond  thy  power ; 
Me  thou  canst  neither  wrong  nor  help  ; — what  then  ? 
Go  to  the  bosom  of  thy  family, 
Gather  thy  little  children  round  thy  knees, 
Gaze  on  their  innocence  ;  their  clear,  full  eyes, 
All  fix'd  on  thine  ;  and  in  their  mother,  mark 
The  loveliest  look  that  woman's  face  can  wear, 
Her  look  of  love,  beholding  them  and  thee  : 
Then,  at  the  altar  of  your  household  joys, 
Vow  one  by  one,  vow  altogether,  vow 
With  heart  and  voice,  eternal  enmity 
Against  oppression  by  your  brethren's  hands  : 
Till  man  nor  woman  under  Britain's  laws, 
Nor  son  nor  daughter  born  within  her  empire, 
Shall  buy,  or  sell,  or  hold,  or  be  a  slave. 

Scarborough,  December,  1896. 


356  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  A  STAR. 

ADDRESSED   TO   A   YOUNG   LADY. 

A  Star  would  be  a  flower ; 

So  down  from  heaven  it  came, 

And  in  a  honeysuckle  bower 

Lit  up  its  little  flame. 

There  on  a  bank,  beneath  the  shade, 

By  sprays,  and  leaves,  and  blossoms  made, 

It  overlook'd  the  garden-ground, 

— A  landscape  stretching  ten  yards  round ; 

Oh  what  a  change  of  place 

From  gazing  through  th'  eternity  of  space  ! 

Gay  plants  on  every  side 

Unclosed  their  lovely  blooms, 

And  scatter' d  far  and  wide 

Their  ravishing  perfumes : 

The  butterfly,  the  bee, 

And  many  an  insect  on  the  wing, 

Full  of  the  spirit  of  the  spring, 

Flew  round  and  round  in  endless  glee, 

Alighting  here,  ascending  there, 

Ranging  and  revelling  everywhere. 

Now  all  the  flowers  were  up  and  drest 

In  robes  of  rainbow-colour'd  light ; 

The  pale  primroses  look'd  their  best, 

Peonies  blush'd  with  all  their  might ; 

Dutch  tulips  from  their  beds 

Flaunted  their  stately  heads  ; 

Auriculas,  like  belles  and  beaux, 

Glittering  with  birthnight  splendour,  rose ; 

And  polyanthuses  display'd 

The  brilliance  of  their  gold  brocade : 

Here  hyacinths  of  heavenly  blue 

Shook  their  rich  tresses  to  the  morn, 


ADVENTURE    OF    A    STAR.  357 

While  rose-buds  scarcely  show'd  their  hue, 

But  coyly  linger'd  on  the  thorn, 

Till  their  loved  nightingale,  who  tarried  long, 

Should  wake  them  into  beauty  with  his  song. 

The  violets  were  past  their  prime, 

Yet  their  departing  breath 

Was  sweeter,  in  the  blast  of  death, 

Than  all  the  lavish  fragrance  of  the  time. 

Amidst  this  gorgeous  train, 

Our  truant  star  shone  forth  in  vain ; 

Though  in  a  wreath  of  periwinkle, 

Through  whose  fine  gloom  it  strove  to  twinkle, 

It  seem'd  no  bigger  to  the  view 

Than  the  light  spangle  in  a  drop  of  dew. 

— Astronomers  may  shake  their  polls, 

And  tell  me, — every  orb  that  rolls 

Through  heaven's  sublime  expanse 

Is  sun  or  world,  whose  speed  and  size 

Confound  the  stretch  of  mortal  eyes, 

In  Nature's  mystic  dance  : 

It  may  be  so 

For  aught  I  know, 

Or  aught  indeed  that  they  can  show  ; 

Yet  till  they  prove  what  they  aver, 

From  this  plain  truth  I  will  not  stir, 

— A  star's  a  star  ! — but  when  I  think 

Of  sun  or  world,  the  star  I  sink  ; 

Wherefore  in  verse,  at  least  in  mine, 

Stars  like  themselves,  in  spite  of  fate,  shall  shine. 

Now  to  return  (for  we  have  wandered  far) 

To  what  was  nothing  but  a  simple  star ; 

— Where  all  was  jollity  around, 

No  fellowship  the  stranger  found. 

Those  lowliest  children  of  the  earth, 

That  never  leave  their  mother's  lap, 

Companions  in  their  harmless  mirth, 

Were  smiling,  blushing,  dancing  there, 

Feasting  on  dew,  and  light,  and  air, 


358  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  fearing  no  mishap, 

Save  from  the  hand  of  lady  fair, 

Who,  on  her  wonted  walk, 

Pluck'd  one  and  then  another, 

A  sister  or  a  brother, 

From  its  elastic  stalk  ; 

Happy,  no  doubt,  for  one  sharp  pang  to  die 

On  her  sweet  bosom,  withering  in  her  eye. 

Thus  all  day  long  that  star's  hard  lot, 

While  bliss  and  beauty  ran  to  waste, 

Was  but  to  witness  on  the  spot 

Beauty  and  bliss  it  could  not  taste. 

At  length  the  sun  went  down,  and  then 

Its  faded  glory  came  again  ; 

With  brighter,  bolder,  purer  light, 

It  kindled  through  the  deepening  night, 

Till  the  green  bower,  so  dim  by  day, 

Glow'd  like  a  fairy-palace  with  its  beams ; 

In  vain,  for  sleep  on  all  the  borders  lay, 

The  flowers  were  laughing  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

Our  star,  in  melancholy  state, 

Still  sigh'd  to  find  itself  alone, 

Neglected,  cold,  and  desolate, 

Unknowing  and  unknown. 

Lifting  at  last  an  anxious  eye, 

It  saw  that  circlet  empty  in  the  sky 

Where  it  was  wont  to  roll 

Within  a  hair-breadth  of  the  pole  : 

In  that  same  instant,  sore  amazed, 

On  the  strange  blank  all  Nature  gazed ; 

Travellers  bewilder'd  for  their  guide, 

In  glens  and  forests  lost  their  way ; 

And  ships,  on  ocean's  trackless  tide, 

Went  fearfully  astray. 

The  star,  now  wiser  for  its  folly,  knew 

Its  duty,  dignity,  and  bliss  at  home  ; 

So  up  to  heaven  again  it  flew, 

Resolved  no  more  to  roam. 


ON    PLANTING  A  TULIP-ROOT. 


One  hint  the  humble  bard  may  send 

To  her  for  whom  these  lines  are  penn'd : 

O  may  it  be  enough  for  her 

To  shine  in  her  own  character ! 

O  may  she  be  content  to  grace, 

On  earth,  in  heaven,  her  proper  place  ! 

1825. 


ON  PLANTING  A  TULIP-ROOT. 

Here  lies  a  bulb,  the  child  of  earth, 

Buried  alive  beneath  the  clod, 
Ere  long  to  spring,  by  second  birth, 

A  new  and  nobler  work  of  God. 

'Tis  said  that  microscopic  power 

Might  through  its  swaddling  folds  descry 

The  infant  image  of  the  flower, 
Too  exquisite  to  meet  the  eye. 

This,  vernal  suns  and  rains  will  swell, 

Till  from  its  dark  abode  it  peep, 
Like  Venus  rising  from  her  shell, 

Amidst  the  spring-tide  of  the  deep. 

Two  shapely  leaves  will  first  unfold, 

Then,  on  a  smooth  elastic  stem, 
The  verdant  bud  shall  turn  to  gold, 

And  open  in  a  diadem. 

Not  one  of  Flora's  brilliant  race 

A  form  more  perfect  can  display ; 
Art  could  not  feign  more  simple  grace, 

Nor  Nature  take  a  line  away. 

Yet,  rich  as  morn  of  many  a  hue, 

When  flushing  clouds  through  darkness  strike, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


The  tulip's  petals  shine  in  dew, 
All  beautiful, — but  none  alike. 

Kings,  on  their  bridal,  might  unrobe 
To  lay  their  glories  at  its  foot ; 

And  queens  their  sceptre,  crown,  and  globe, 
Exchange  for  blossom,  stalk,  and  root. 

Here  could  I  stand  and  moralize  ; 

Lady,  I  leave  that  part  to  thee ; 
Be  thy  next  birth  in  Paradise, 

Thy  life  to  come  eternity  ! 

1824. 


THE  DROUGHT. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  1826. 
Rosea,  ii.  21,  22. 

What  strange,  what  fearful  thing  hath  come  to  pass? 

The  ground  is  iron,  and  the  heavens  are  brass ; 

Man  on  the  withering  harvests  casts  his  eye, 

"  Give  me  your  fruits  in  season,  or  I  die  ;" 

The  timely  Fruits  implore  their  parent  Earth, 

"  Where  is  thy  strength  to  bring  us  forth  to  birth  ?" 

The  Earth,  all  prostrate,  to  the  clouds  complains, 

"  Send  to  my  heart  your  fertilizing  rains  ;" 

The  Clouds  invoke  the  Heavens, — "  Collect,  dispense 

Through  us  your  quickening,  healing  influence;" 

The  Heavens  to  Him  that  made  them  raise  their  moan, 

"  Command  thy  blessing,  and  it  shall  be  done  ;" 

The  Lord  is  in  his  temple : — hush'd  and  still, 

The  suppliant  Universe  awaits  his  will. 

He  speaks  ;  and  to  the  Clouds  the  Heavens  dispense, 
With  lightning-speed,  their  genial  influence  ; 
The  gathering,  breaking  Clouds  pour  down  their  rains, 
Earth  drinks  the  bliss  through  all  her  eager  veins ; 


THE    DROK.Iir.  301 


From  teeming  furrows  start  the  Fruits  to  birth, 
And  shake  their  treasures  on  the  Lap  of  Earth  ; 
Man  sees  the  harvests  grow  beneath  his  eye, 
Turns,  and  looks  up  with  rapture  to  the  sky  ; 
All  that  have  breath  and  being  now  rejoice  ; 
All  Nature's  voices  blend  in  one  great  voice, 
"Glory  to  God,  who  thus  himself  makes  known!" 
— When  shall  all  tongues  confess  Him  ( rOD  alone  ? 

Lord  !  as  the  rain  comes  down  from  Heaven, — the  rain 
Which  waters  Earth,  nor  thence  returns  in  vain, 
But  makes  the  tree  to  bud,  the  grass  to  spring, 
And  feeds  and  gladdens  every  living  thing, — 
So  may  thy  word,  upon  a  world  destroy'd, 
Come  down  in  blessing,  and  return  not  void ; 
So  may  it  come  in  universal  showers, 
And  fill  Earth's  dreariest  wilderness  with  flowers, 
— With  flowers  of  promise  fill  the  world,  within 
Man's  heart,  laid  waste  and  desolate  by  sin  ; 
Where  thorns  and  thistles  curse  the  infested  ground, 
Let  the  rich  fruits  of  righteousness  abound ; 
And  trees  of  life,  for  ever  fresh  and  green, 
Flourish  where  trees  of  death  alone  have  been  ; 
Let  Truth  look  down  from  heaven,  Hope  soar  above, 
Justice  and  Mercy  kiss,  Faith  work  by  Love ; 
Nations  new-born  their  fathers'  idols  spurn; 
The  Ransom'd  of  the  Lord  with  songs  return  ; 
Heralds  the  year  of  Jubilee  proclaim  ; 
Bow  every  knee  at  the  Redeemer's  name ; 
O'er  lands,  with  darkness,  thraldom,  guilt,  o'erspread, 
In  light,  joy,  freedom,  be  the  Spirit  shed  ; 
Speak  Thou  the  word:  to  Satan's  power  say,  "Cease," 
But  to  a  world  of  pardon'd  sinners,  "  Peac 
— Thus  in  thy  grace,  Lord  God,  Thyself  make  known : 
Then  shall  all  tongues  confess  Thee  God  alone. 


•M 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  FALLING  LEAF. 

Were  I  a  trembling  leaf, 

On  yonder  stately  tree, 
After  a  season  gay  and  brief, 

Condemn' d  to  fade  and  flee  : 

I  should  be  loth  to  fall 
Beside  the  common  way, 

Weltering  in  mire,  and  spurn'd  by  all, 
Till  trodden  down  to  clay. 

Nor  would  I  choose  to  die 

All  on  a  bed  of  grass, 
Where  thousands  of  my  kindred  lie, 

And  idly  rot  in  mass. 

Nor  would  I  like  to  spread 
My  thin  and  wither' d  face 

In  hortus  siccus,  pale  and  dead, 
A  mummy  of  my  race. 

No, — on  the  wings  of  air 

Might  I  be  left  to  fly, 
I  know  not  and  I  heed  not  where, 

A  waif  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

Or  flung  upon  the  stream, 

Curl'd  like  a  fairy-boat, 
As  through  the  changes  of  a  dream, 

To  the  world's  end  to  float ! 

Who  that  hath  ever  been, 
Could  bear  to  be  no  more  1 

Yet  who  would  tread  again  the  scene 
He  trod  through  life  before  ? 

On,  with  intense  desire, 
Man's  spirit  will  move  on  : 

It  seems  to  die,  yet,  like  heaven's  fire, 
It  is  not  quench'd,  but  gone. 

Matlock,  1822. 


THOUGHTS    AND    IMAGES.  363 


THOUGHTS  AND  IMAGES. 

"Come  like  shadows,  so  depart."        Macbeth. 

The  Diamond,  in  its  native  bed, 
Hid  like  a  buried  star  may  lie, 
Where  foot  of  man  must  never  tread, 
Seen  only  by  its  Maker's  eye : 
And  though  imbued  with  beams  to  grace 
His  fairest  work  in  woman's  face, 
Darkling,  its  fire  may  fill  the  void, 
Where  fix'd  at  first  in  solid  night ; 
Nor,  till  the  world  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Sparkle  one  moment  into  light. 

The  Plant,  upspringing  from  the  seed, 
Expands  into  a  perfect  flower ; 
The  virgin-daughter  of  the  mead, 
Wooed  by  the  sun,  the  wind,  the  shower : 
In  loveliness  beyond  compare, 
It  toils  not,  spins  not,  knows  no  care ; 
Train'd  by  the  secret  hand,  that  brings 
All  beauty  out  of  waste  and  rude, 
It  blooms  its  season,  dies,  and  flings 
Its  germs  abroad  in  solitude. 

Almighty  skill,  in  ocean's  caves, 
Lends  the  light  Nautilus  a  form 
To  tilt  along  the  Atlantic  waves, 
Fearless  of  rock,  or  shoal,  or  storm  ; 
But,  should  a  breath  of  danger  sound, 
With  sails  quick-furl'd  it  dives  profound, 
And  far  beneath  the  tempest's  path, 
In  coral  grots,  defies  the  foe, 
That  never  brake,  in  heaviest  wrath, 
The  sabbath  of  the  deep  below. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  FALLING  LEAF. 

Were  I  a  trembling  leaf, 

On  yonder  stately  tree, 
After  a  season  gay  and  brief, 

Condemn'd  to  fade  and  flee : 

I  should  be  loth  to  fall 
Beside  the  common  way, 

Weltering  in  mire,  and  spurn'd  by  all, 
Till  trodden  down  to  clay. 

Nor  would  I  choose  to  die 

All  on  a  bed  of  grass, 
Where  thousands  of  my  kindred  lie, 

And  idly  rot  in  mass. 

Nor  would  I  like  to  spread 
My  thin  and  wither' d  face 

In  hortus  siccus,  pale  and  dead, 
A  mummy  of  my  race. 

No, — on  the  wings  of  air 

Might  I  be  left  to  fly, 
I  know  not  and  I  heed  not  where, 

A  waif  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

Or  flung  upon  the  stream, 

Curl'd  like  a  fairy-boat, 
As  through  the  changes  of  a  dream, 

To  the  world's  end  to  float ! 

Who  that  hath  ever  been, 
Could  bear  to  be  no  more  ? 

Yet  who  would  tread  again  the  scene 
He  trod  through  life  before  ? 

On,  with  intense  desire, 
Man's  spirit  will  move  on  : 

It  seems  to  die,  yet,  like  heaven's  fire, 
It  is  not  quench'd,  but  gone. 

Matlock,  1822. 


THOUGHTS    AND    IMAGES.  363 


THOUGHTS  AND  IMAGES. 

"Come  like  shadows,  so  depart."        Macbeth. 

The  Diamond,  in  its  native  bed, 
Hid  like  a  buried  star  may  lie, 
Where  foot  of  man  must  never  tread, 
Seen  only  by  its  Maker's  eye  : 
And  though  imbued  with  beams  to  grace 
His  fairest  work  in  woman's  face, 
Darkling,  its  fire  may  fill  the  void, 
Where  fix'd  at  first  in  solid  night ; 
Nor,  till  the  world  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Sparkle  one  moment  into  light. 

The  Plant,  upspringing  from  the  seed, 
Expands  into  a  perfect  flower ; 
The  virgin-daughter  of  the  mead, 
Wooed  by  the  sun,  the  wind,  the  shower : 
In  loveliness  beyond  compare, 
It  toils  not,  spins  not,  knows  no  care  ; 
Train'd  by  the  secret  hand,  that  brings 
All  beauty  out  of  waste  and  rude, 
It  blooms  its  season,  dies,  and  flings 
Its  germs  abroad  in  solitude. 

Almighty  skill,  in  ocean's  caves, 
Lends  the  light  Nautilus  a  form 
To  tilt  along  the  Atlantic  waves, 
Fearless  of  rock,  or  shoal,  or  storm  ; 
But,  should  a  breath  of  danger  sound, 
With  sails  quick-furl'd  it  dives  profound, 
And  far  beneath  the  tempest's  path, 
In  coral  grots,  defies  the  foe, 
That  never  brake,  in  heaviest  wrath, 
The  sabbath  of  the  deep  below. 


364  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Up  from  his  dream,  on  twinkling  wings, 
The  Sky-lark  soars  amid  the  dawn ; 
Yet,  while  in  Paradise  he  sings, 
Looks  down  upon  the  quiet  lawn, 
Where  nutters,  in  his  little  nest, 
More  love  than  music  e'er  express'd ; 
Then,  though  the  Nightingale  may  thrilJ 
The  soul  with  keener  ecstasy, 
The  merry  bird  of  morn  can  fill 
All  Nature's  bosom  with  his  glee. 

The  Elephant,  embower'd  in  woods, 
Coeval  with  their  trees  might  seem, 
As  though  he  drank  from  Indian  floods 
Life  in  a  renovating  stream  : 
Ages  o'er  him  have  come  and  fled ; 
Midst  generations  of  the  dead, 
His  bulk  survives  to  feed  and  range, 
Where  ranged  and  fed  of  old  his  sires  ; 
Nor  knows  advancement,  lapse,  or  change, 
Beyond  their  walks,  till  he  expires. 

Gem,  flower,  and  fish,  the  bird,  the  brute, 
Of  every  kind  occult  or  known, 
(Each  exquisitely  form'd  to  suit 
Its  humble  lot,  and  that  alone,) 
Through  ocean,  earth,  and  air  fulfil, 
Unconsciously,  their  Maker's  will, 
Who  gave,  without  their  toil  or  thought, 
Strength,  beauty,  instinct,  courage,  speed  ; 
While  through  the  whole  his  pleasure  wrought 
Whate'er  his  wisdom  had  decreed. 

But  Man,  the  master-piece  of  God, 
Man,  in  his  Maker's  image  framed, — 
Though  kindred  to  the  valley's  clod, 
Lord  of  this  low  creation  named,— 
In  naked  helplessness  appears, 
Child  of  a  thousand  griefs  and  fears  : 


THOUGHTS    AND    IMAGES. 


To  labour,  pain,  and  trouble  born, 
Weapon,  nor  wing,  nor  sleight  hath  he ; 
Yet,  like  the  sun,  he  brings  his  morn, 
And  is  a  king  from  infancy. 

For,  him  no  destiny  hath  bound 
To  do  what  others  did  before, 
Pace  the  same  dull  perennial  round, 
And  be  a  man,  and  be  no  more  : 
A  man  ? — a  self-will' d  piece  of  earth, 
Just  as  the  lion  is,  by  birth ; 
To  hunt  his  prey,  to  wake,  to  sleep, 
His  father's  joys  and  sorrows  share, 
His  niche  in  Nature's  temple  keep, 
And  leave  his  likeness  in  his  heir ! — 

No  ;  infinite  the  shades  between 

The  motley  millions  of  our  race  ; 

No  two  the  changing  moon  hath  seen 

Alike  in  purpose,  or  in  face  ; 

Yet  all  aspire  beyond  their  fate  ; 

The  least,  the  meanest,  would  be  great ; 

The  mighty  future  fills  the  mind, 

That  pants  for  more  than  earth  can  give ; 

Man,  to  this  narrow  sphere  confined, 

Dies  when  he  but  begins  to  live. 

Oh  !  if  there  be  no  world  on  high 
To  yield  his  powers  unfetter'd  scope  ; 
If  man  be  only  born  to  die, 
Whence  this  inheritance  of  hope  ? 
Wherefore  to  him  alone  were  lent 
Riches  that  never  can  be  spent  ? 
Enough,  not  more,  to  all  the  rest, 
For  life  and  happiness,  was  given ; 
To  man,  mysteriously  unblest, 
Too  much  for  any  state  but  heaven. 

It  is  not  thus  ; — it  cannot  be, 
That  one  so  gloriously  endow'd 

31* 


366  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

With  views  that  reach  eternity, 
Should  shine  and  vanish  like  a  cloud : 
Is  there  a  God  ! — all  Nature  shows 
There  is, — and  yet  no  mortal  knows  : 
The  mind  that  could  this  truth  conceive, 
Which  brute  sensation  never  taught, 
No  longer  to  the  dust  would  cleave, 
But  grow  immortal  with  the  thought. 

1819. 


THE  AGES  OF  MAN. 


Youth,  fond  youth  !  to  thee,  in  life's  gay  morning, 
New  and  wonderful  are  heaven  and  earth ; 

Health  the  hills,  content  the  fields  adorning, 
Nature  rings  with  melody  and  mirth  ; 

Love  invisible,  beneath,  above, 

Conquers  all  things  ;  all  things  yield  to  love. 

Time,  swift  time,  from  years  their  motion  stealing, 
Unperceived  hath  sober  manhood  brought ; 

Truth,  her  pure  and  humble  forms  revealing, 
Peoples  fancy's  fairy -land  with  thought ; 

Then  the  heart,  no  longer  prone  to  roam, 

Loves,  loves  best,  the  quiet  bliss  of  home. 

Age,  old  age,  in  sickness,  pain,  and  sorrow, 

Creeps  with  lengthening  shadow  o'er  the  scene ; 

Life  was  yesterday,  'tis  death  to-morrow, 
And  to-day  the  agony  between : 

Then  how  longs  the  weary  soul  for  thee, 

Bright  and  beautiful  eternity  ! 


THE    GRAVE.  307 


THE  GRAVE. 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found, 
They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 

Low  in  the  ground. 

The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose, 
Than  summer-evening's  latest  sigh 

That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 
And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 

From  all  my  toil. 

For  misery  stole  me  at  my  birth, 
And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild : 

I  perish  ; O  my  Mother  Earth 

Take  home  thy  Child. 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined 
Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee  ; 
Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 

Hark  ! — a  strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear ; 
My  pulse, — my  brain  runs  wild, — I  rave  ; 
— Ah  !  who  art  thou  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 

"  I  am  THE  GRAVE  ! 

"  The  grave,  that  never  spake  before, 
Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide ; 
O  listen  ! — I  will  speak  no  more  : — 
Be  silent,  Pride ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


"  Art  thou  a  wretch  of  hope  forlorn, 
The  victim  of  consuming  care  ? 
Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 

By  fell  despair  ? 

"  Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 
Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast  ? 
And  ghosts  of  unforgiven  crimes 

Murder  thy  rest  1 

"  Lash'd  by  the  furies  of  the  mind, 
From  Wrath  and  Vengeance  wouldst  thou  flee  ? 
Ah !  think  not,  hope  not,  fool,  to  find 
A  friend  in  me. 

"  By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, 
Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell ; 
By  the  dread  secrets  of  my  womb  ; 

By  Death  and  Hell ; 

"  I  charge  thee,  live  !■ — repent  and  pray ; 
In  dust  thine  infamy  deplore  ; 
There  yet  is  mercy ; — go  thy  way, 
And  sin  no  more. 

"  Art  thou  a  mourner  ? — Hast  thou  known 
The  joy  of  innocent  delights, 
Endearing  days  for  ever  flown, 

And  tranquil  nights  ? 

"  O  live  ! and  deeply  cherish  still 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past : 
Rely  on  Heaven's  unchanging  will 
For  peace  at  last. 

"  Art  thou  a  wanderer  ? — Hast  thou  seen 
O'erwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark  ? 
A  shipwreck'd  sufferer  hast  thou  been, 
Misfortune's  mark  ? 


THE    GRAVE.  3C9 


"  Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the  sport, 
Condemn'd  in  wretchedness  to  roam, 
Live  ! — thou  shalt  reach  a  sheltering  port, 
A  quiet  home. 

"  To  friendship  didst  thou  trust  thy  fame, 
And  was  thy  friend  a  deadly  foe, 
Who  stole  into  thy  breast  to  aim 
A  surer  blow  ? 

"Live  ! — and  repine  not  o'er  his  loss, 
A  loss  unworthy  to  be  told  : 
Thou  hast  mistaken  sordid  dross 

For  friendship's  gold. 

"  Seek  the  true  treasure,  seldom  found, 
Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm, 
And  soothe  the  bosom's  deepest  wound 
With  heavenly  balm. 

"  Did  woman's  charms  thy  youth  beguile, 
And  did  the  Fair  One  faithless  prove  ? 
Hath  she  betray'd  thee  with  a  smile, 
And  sold  thy  love  ? 

"  Live  ! — 'TAvas  a  false  bewildering  fire  : 
Too  often  Love's  insidious  dart 
Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  wild  desire, 
But  kills  the  heart. 

"  Thou  yet  shalt  know,  how  sweet,  how  dear 
To  gaze  on  listening  Beauty's  eye  ; 
To  ask, — and  pause  in  hope  and  fear 
Till  she  reply. 

"  A  nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast, 
A  brighter  maiden  faithful  prove  ; 
Thy  youth,  thine  age,  shall  yet  be  blest 
In  woman's  love. 


370  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


■Whate'er  thy  lot, — whoe'er  thou  be,- 


Confess  thy  folly, — kiss  the  rod, 
And  in  thy  chastening  sorrow  see 

The  hand  of  God. 

"  A  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break ; 
Afflictions  all  his  children  feel : 
He  wounds  them  for  his  mercy's  sake, 
He  wounds  to  heal. 

"Humbled  beneath  his  mighty  hand, 
Prostrate  his  Providence  adore  : 
'Tis  done  ! — Arise  !  He  bids  thee  stand, 
To  fall  no  more. 

"  Now,  Traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears, 
To  realms  of  everlasting  light, 
Through  Time's  dark  wilderness  of  years 
Pursue  thy  flight. 

"  There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  Pilgrims  found ; 
And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground. 

"  The  Soul,  of  origin  divine, 
God's  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay, 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 
A  star  of  day. 

"  The  sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 
A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky  ; 
The  soul,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 

SHALL    NEVER   DIE." 
1804. 


BOLEHILL    TREES.  371 


BOLEHILL  TREES. 

A  conspicuous  plantation,  encompassing  a  school-house  and  play-ground,  on  a 
bleak  eminence,  at  Barlow,  in  Derbyshire :  on  the  one  hand  facing  the  high 
moors  ;  on  the  other,  overlooking  a  richly-cultivated,  well-wooded,  and  moun- 
tainous country,  near  the  seat  of  a  gentlemen  where  the  writer  has  spent 
many  happy  hours. 

Now  peace  to  his  ashes  who  planted  yon  trees, 

That  welcome  my  wandering  eye  ! 
In  lofty  luxuriance  they  wave  with  the  breeze, 

And  resemble  a  grove  in  the  sky  ; 
On  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  uncultured  and  bleak, 

They  flourish  in  grandeur  sublime, 
Adorning  its  bald  and  majestical  peak, 

Like  the  lock  on  the  forehead  of  Time. 

A  land-mark  they  rise  ; — to  the  stranger  forlorn 

All  night  on  the  wild  heath  delay'd, 
'Tis  rapture  to  spy  the  young  beauties  of  morn 

Unveiling  behind  their  dark  shade  : 
The  homeward-bound  husbandman  joys  to  behold, 

On  the  line  of  the  gray  evening  scene, 
Their  branches  yet  gleaming  with  purple  and  gold, 

And  the  sunset  expiring  between. 

The  maidens  that  gather  the  fruits  of  the  moor,* 

While  weary  and  fainting  they  roam, 
Through  the  blue  dazzling  distance  of  noon-light  explore 

The  trees  that  remind  them  of  home  : 
The  children  that  range  in  the  valley  suspend 

Their  sports  and  in  ecstasy  gaze, 
When  they  see  the  broad  moon  from  the  summit  ascend, 

And  their  school-house  and  grove  in  a  blaze. 

Oh  !  sweet  to  my  soul  is  that  beautiful  grove, 
Awakening  remembrance  most  dear  ; — 

*  Bilberries,  cluster-berries,  and  crane-berries. 


372  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

When  lonely  in  anguish  and  exile  I  rove, 

Wherever  its  glories  appear, 
It  gladdens  my  spirit,  it  soothes  from  afar 

With  tranquil  and  tender  delight, 
It  shines  through  my  heart,  like  a  hope-beaming  star, 

Alone  in  the  desert  of  night. 

It  tells  me  of  moments  of  innocent  bliss, 

For  ever  and  ever  gone  o'er  ; 
Like  the  light  of  a  smile,  like  the  balm  of  a  kiss, 

They  were, — but  they  will  be  no  more  : 
Yet  wherefore  of  pleasures  departed  complain, 

That  leave  such  endearment  behind  ? 
Though  the  sun  of  their  sweetness  be  sunk  in  the  main, 

Their  twilight  still  rests  on  the  mind. 

Then  peace  to  his  ashes  who  planted  those  trees ! 

Supreme  o'er  the  landscape  they  rise, 
With  simple  and  lovely  magnificence  please 

All  bosoms,  and  gladden  all  eyes : 
Nor  marble,  nor  brass,  could  emblazon  his  fame 

Like  his  own  sylvan  trophies,  that  wave 
In  graceful  memorial,  and  whisper  his  name, 

And  scatter  their  leaves  on  his  grave. 

Ah  !  thus,  when  I  sleep  in  the  desolate  tomb, 

May  the  laurels  I  planted  endure, 
On  the  mountain  of  high  immortality  bloom, 

Midst  lightning  and  tempest  secure  ! 
Then  ages  unborn  shall  their  verdure  admire, 

And  nations  sit  under  their  shade, 
While  my  spirit,  in  secret,  shall  move  o'er  my  lyre, 

Aloft  in  their  branches  display'd. 

Hence  dream  of  vain  glory  ! — the  light  drop  of  dew 

That  glows  in  the  violet's  eye, 
En  the  splendour  of  morn,  to  a  fugitive  view, 

May  rival  a  star  of  the  sky  ; 


373 


But  the  violet  is  pluck'd,  and  the  dew-drop  is  flown, 
The  star  unextinguished  shall  shine  : 

Then  mine  be  the  laurels  of  virtue  alone, 
And  the  glories  of  Paradise  mine. 

1807. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG. 

Shall  Man  of  frail  fruition  boast  ? 

Shall  life  be  counted  dear, 
Oft  but  a  moment,  and  at  most 

A  momentary  year? 

There  was  a  time, — that  time  is  past, — 
When,  youth  !  I  bloom'd  like  thee  ! 

A  time  will  come, — 'tis  coming  fast, 
When  thou  shalt  fade  like  me  : — 

Like  me  through  varying  seasons  range, 
And  past  enjoyments  mourn  ; — 

The  fairest,  sweetest  spring  shall  change 
To  winter  in  its  turn. 

In  infancy,  my  vernal  prime, 

When  life  itself  was  new, 
Amusement  pluck'd  the  wings  of  time, 

Yet  swifter  still  he  flew. 

Summer  my  youth  succeeded  soon, 

My  sun  ascended  high, 
And  pleasure  held  the  reins  till  noon, 

But  grief  drove  down  the  sky. 

Like  Autumn,  rich  in  ripening  corn, 
Came  manhood's  sober  reign  ; 

My  harvest-moon  scarce  fill'd  her  horn, 
When  she  began  to  wane. 

Close  follow'd  age,  infirm  old  age, 
The  winter  of  my  year  ; 


32 


374  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

When  shall  I  fall  before  his  rage, 
To  rise  beyond  the  sphere  ! 

I  long  to  cast  the  chains  away, 
That  hold  my  soul  a  slave, 

To  burst  these  dungeon  walls  of  clay, 
Enfranchised  from  the  grave. 

Life  lies  in  embryo, — never  free 
Till  Nature  yields  her  breath, 

Till  Time  becomes  Eternity, 
And  Man  is  born  in  Death. 

1804. 


THE  GLOW-WORM. 


The  male  of  this  insect  is  said  to  be  a  fly,  which  the  female  caterpillar  attracts 
in  the  night  by  the  lustre  of  her  train. 

When  Evening  closes  Nature's  eye, 
The  Glow-worm  lights  her  little  spark, 

To  captivate  her  favourite  fly, 

And  tempt  the  rover  through  the  dark. 

Conducted  by  a  sweeter  star, 

Than  all  that  deck  the  fields  above, 

He  fondly  hastens  from  afar, 

To  soothe  her  solitude  with  love. 

Thus  in  this  wilderness  of  tears, 

Amidst  the  world's  perplexing  gloom, 

The  transient  torch  of  Hymen  cheers 
The  pilgrim  journeying  to  the  tomb. 

Unhappy  he  whose  hopeless  eye 
Turns  to  the  light  of  love  in  vain ; 

Whose  cynosure  is  in  the  sky, 
He  on  the  dark  and  lonely  main. 

1804. 


THE    MOLE-HILL.  375 


THE  MOLE-HILL. 

Tell  me,  thou  dust  beneath  my  feet, 
Thou  dust  that  once  hadst  breath ! 

Tell  me  how  many  mortals  meet 
In  this  small  hill  of  death  ? 

The  mole  that  scoops  with  curious  toil 

Her  subterranean  bed, 
Thinks  not  she  ploughs  a  human  soil, 

And  mines  among  the  dead. 

But,  O  !  where'er  she  turns  the  ground, 

My  kindred  earth  I  see  ; 
Once  every  atom  of  this  mound 

Lived,  breathed,  and  felt,  like  me. 

Like  me,  these  elder-born  of  clay 

Enjoy'd  the  cheerful  light, 
Bore  the  brief  burden  of  a  day, 

And  went  to  rest  at  night. 

Far  in  the  regions  of  the  morn, 

The  rising  sun  surveys 
Palmyra's  palaces  forlorn, 

Empurpled  with  his  rays. 

The  spirits  of  the  desert  dwell 
Where  eastern  grandeur  shone, 

And  vultures  scream,  hyaenas  yell 
Round  Beauty's  mouldering  throne. 

There  the  pale  pilgrim,  as  he  stands, 

Sees,  from  the  broken  wall, 
The  shadow  tottering  on  the  sands, 

Ere  the  loose  fragment  fall. 


376  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Destruction  joys,  amid  those  scenes, 

To  watch  the  sport  of  Fate, 
While  Time  between  the  pillars  leans, 

And  bows  them  with  his  weight. 

But  towers  and  temples  crush'd  by  Time, 
Stupendous  wrecks  !  appear 

To  me  less  mournfully  sublime 
Than  the  poor  Mole-hill  here. 

Through  all  this  hillock's  trembling  mould, 
Once  the  warm  life-blood  ran  ; 

Here  thine  original  behold, 
And  here  thy  ruins,  Man  ! 

Methinks  this  dust  yet  heaves  with  breath ; 

Ten  thousand  pulses  beat ; 
Tell  me, — -in  this  small  hill  of  death, 

How  many  mortals  meet  ? 

By  wafting  winds  and  flooding  rains, 

From  ocean,  earth,  and  sky, 
Collected  here,  the  frail  remains 

Of  slumbering  millions  lie. 

What  scene  of  terror  and  amaze 

Breaks  through  the  twilight  gloom  ? 

What  hand  invisible  displays 
The  secrets  of  the  tomb  ? 

All  ages  and  all  nations  rise, 

And  every  grain  of  earth 
Beneath  my  feet,  before  mine  eyes, 

Is  startled  into  birth. 

Like  gliding  mists  the  shadowy  forms 
Through  the  deep  valley  spread, 

And  like  descending  clouds  in  storms 
Lower  round  the  mountain's  head. 

O'er  the  wild  champaign  while  they  pass, 
Their  footsteps  yield  no  sound, 


THE    MOLE-HILL.  377 


Nor  shake  from  the  light  trembling  grass 
A  dew-drop  to  the  ground. 

Among  the  undistinguished  hosts, 

My  wondering  eyes  explore 
Awful,  sublime,  terrific  ghosts, 

Heroes  and  kings  of  yore  : — 

Tyrants,  the  comets  of  their  kind, 
Whose  withering  influence  ran 

Through  all  the  promise  of  the  mind, 
And  smote  and  mildew'd  man: — 

Sages,  the  Pleiades  of  earth, 

Whose  genial  aspect  smiled, 
And  flowers  and  fruitage  sprang  to  birth 

O'er  all  the  human  wild. 

Yon  gloomy  ruffian,  gash'd  and  gored, 

Was  he,  whose  fatal  skill 
First  beat  the  plough-share  to  a  sword, 

And  taught  the  art  to  kill. 

Behind  him  skulks  a  shade,  bereft 

Of  fondly  worshipt  fame  ; 
He  built  the  Pyramids,  but  left 

No  stone  to  tell  his  name. 

Who  is  the  chief,  with  visage  dark 

As  tempests  when  they  roar  ? 
— The  first  who  push'd  his  daring  bark 

Beyond  the  timid  shore. 

Through  storms  of  death  and  seas  of  graves 
He  steer'd  with  steadfast  eye  ; 

His  path  was  on  the  desert  waves, 
His  compass  in  the  sky. 

That  youth  who  lifts  his  graceful  hand, 

Struck  the  unshapen  block, 
And  beauty  leap'd,  at  his  command, 

A  Venus  from  tne  rock. 


32< 


378  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Trembling  with  ecstasy  of  thought, 

Behold  the  Grecian  maid, 
Whom  love's  enchanting  impulse  taught 

To  trace  a  slumberer's  shade. 

Sweet  are  the  thefts  of  love  ; — she  stole 

His  image  while  he  lay, 
Kindled  the  shadow  to  a  soul, 

And  breathed  that  soul  through  clay. 

Yon  listening  nymph,  who  looks  behind, 

With  countenance  of  fire, 
Heard  midnight  music  in  the  wind, — 

And  framed  the  iEolian  lyre. 

All  hail ! — The  Sire  of  Song  appears 

The  Muse's  eldest  born ; 
The  skylark  in  the  dawn  of  years, 

The  poet  of  the  morn. 

He  from  the  depth  of  cavern'd  woods, 

That  echoed  to  his  voice, 
Bade  mountains,  valleys,  winds,  and  floods, 

And  earth  and  heaven  rejoice. 

Though  charm' d  to  meekness  while  he  sung, 
The  wild  beasts  round  him  ran, 

This  was  the  triumph  of  his  tongue, — 
It  tamed  the  heart  of  man. 

Dim  through  the  mist  of  twilight  times 

The  ghost  of  Cyrus  walks  ; 
Behind  him,  red  with  glorious  crimes, 

The  son  of  Ammon  stalks. 

Relentless  Hannibal,  in  pride 
Of  sworn,  fix'd  hatred,  lowers  ; 

Caesar,— 'tis  Brutus  at  his  side, — 
In  peerless  grandeur  towers. 

With  moonlight  softness  Helen's  charms 
Dissolve  the  spectred  gloom, 


THE    MOLE-HILL.  379 


The  leading  star  of  Greece  in  arms, 
Portending  Ilion's  doom. 

But  Homer , — see  the  bard  arise  ! 

And  hark  ! — he  strikes  the  lyre  ; 
The  Dardan  warriors  lift  their  eyes, 

The  Argive  Chiefs  respire. 

And  while  his  music  rolls  along, 

The  towers  of  Troy  sublime, 
Raised  by  the  magic  breath  of  song, 

Mock  the  destroyer  Time. 

For  still  around  the  eternal  walls 

The  storms  of  battle  rage  : 
And  Hector  conquers,  Hector  falls, 

Bewept  in  every  age. 

Genius  of  Homer  !  Were  it  mine 

To  track  thy  fiery  car, 
And  in  thy  sunset  course  to  shine 

A  radiant  evening  star, — 

What  theme,  what  laurel  might  the  Muse 

Reclaim  from  ages  fled  ? 
What  realm-restoring  hero  choose 

To  summon  from  the  dead  ? 

Yonder  his  shadow  flits  away  : 
— Thou  shalt  not  thus  depart ; 

Stay,  thou  transcendent  spirit,  stay, 
And  tell  me  who  thou  art ! 

'Tis  Alfred  !— In  the  rolls  of  Fame, 

And  on  the  midnight  page, 
Blazes  his  broad  refulgent  name, 

The  watch-light  of  his  age. 

A  Danish  winter,  from  the  north, 
Howl'd  o'er  the  British  wild, 

But  Alfred,  like  the  spring,  broke  forth, 
And  all  the  desert  smiled. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Back  to  the  deep  he  roll'd  the  waves, 

By  mad  invasion  hurl'd ; 
His  voice  was  liberty  to  slaves, 

Defiance  to  the  world. 

And  still  that  voice  o'er  land  and  sea 

Shall  Albion's  foes  appal ; 
The  race  of  Alfred  will  be  free  ; — 

Hear  it,  and  tremble,  Gaul ! 

But  lo  !  the  phantoms  fade  in  flight, 
Like  fears  that  cross  the  mind, 

Like  meteors  gleaming  through  the  night, 
Like  thunders  on  the  wind. 

The  vision  of  the  tomb  is  past ; 

Beyond  it  who  can  tell 
In  what  mysterious  region  cast 

Immortal  spirits  dwell  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  soon  shall  know 
When  life's  sore  conflicts  cease, 

When  this  desponding  heart  lies  low, 
And  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

For  see,  on  Death's  bewildering  wave, 

The  rainbow  Hope  arise, 
A  bridge  of  glory  o'er  the  grave, 

That  bends  beyond  the  skies. 

From  earth  to  heaven  it  swells  and  shines 
The  pledge  of  bliss  to  Man  ; 

Time  with  Eternity  combines, 
And  grasps  them  in  a  span. 

1807. 


ee. 


A  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD.  381 

A  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD. 

Emblem  of  eternity, 
Unbeginning,  endless  sea ! 
Let  me  launch  my  soul  on  th 

Sail,  nor  keel,  nor  helm,  nor  oar, 

Need  I,  ask  I,  to  explore 

Thine  expanse  from  shore  to  shore. 

By  a  single  glance  of  thought, 

Thy  whole  realm's  before  me  brought 

Like  the  universe,  from  nought. 

All  thine  aspects  now  I  view, 

Ever  old,  yet  ever  new, 

— Time  nor  tide  thy  power  subdue. 

All  thy  voices  now  I  hear ; 
Sounds  of  gladness,  grandeur,  fear, 
Meet  and  mingle  in  mine  ear. 

All  thy  wonders  are  reveal'd, 
Treasures  hidden  in  thy  field, 
From  the  birth  of  nature  seal'd. 

But  thy  depths  I  search  not  now, 
Nor  thy  liquid  surface  plow 
With  a  billow-breaking  prow. 

Eager  fancy,  unconfined, 
In  a  voyage  of  the  mind, 
Sweeps  along  thee  like  the  wind. 

Here  a  breeze,  I  skim  thy  plain, 
There  a  tempest,  pour  amain 
Thunder,  lightning,  hail,  and  rain. 

Where  the  surges  never  roll 
Round  the  undiscover'd  pole, 
Thence  set  out,  my  venturous  soul ! 


382  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

See  o'er  Greenland,  cold  and  wild, 

Rocks  of  ice  eternal  piled, 

—Yet  the  mother  loves  her  child, — 

And  the  wildernesses  drear, 
To  the  native's  heart  are  dear ; 
All  love's  charities  dwell  here. 

Next  on  lonely  Labrador, 

Let  me  hear  the  snow-storms  roar, 

Blinding,  burying  all  before. 

Yet  even  here,  in  glens  and  coves, 
Man  the  heir  of  all  things  roves, 
Feasts  and  fights,  and  laughs  and  loves. 

But  a  brighter  vision  breaks 
O'er  Canadian  woods  and  lakes  ; 
— These  my  spirit  soon  forsakes. 

Land  of  exiled  liberty, 

Where  our  fathers  once  were  free, 

Brave  New  England  !  hail  to  thee  ! 

Pennsylvania,  while  thy  flood 
Waters  fields  unbought  with  blood, 
Stand  for  peace,  as  thou  hast  stood. 

The  West  Indies  I  behold, 
Like  th'  Hesperides  of  old, 
— Trees  of  life  with  fruits  of  gold. 

No, — a  curse  is  on  their  soil, 
Bonds  and  scourges,  tears  and  toil, 
Man  degrade,  and  earth  despoil. 

Horror-struck  I  turn  away, 
Coasting  down  the  Mexique  bay, 
— Slavery  there  hath  had  her  day. 

Hark  !  eight  hundred  thousand  tongues 
Startle  midnight  with  strange  songs  ; 
— England  ends  her  negroes'  wrongs. 


A    VOYAGE    ROUND    THE    WORLD.  383 

Loud  the  voice  of  freedom  spoke, 
Every  accent  split  a  yoke, 
Every  word  a  fetter  broke. 

South  America  expands 
Forest-mountains,  river-lands, 
And  a  nobler  race  demands. 

And  a  nobler  race  arise, 

Stretch  their  limbs,  unclose  their  eyes, 

Claim  the  earth,  and  seek  the  skies. 

Gliding  through  Magellan's  Straits, 
Where  two  oceans  ope  their  gates, 
What  a  glorious  scene  awaits  ! 

The  immense  Pacific  smiles, 
Round  ten  thousand  little  isles, 
— Haunts  of  violence  and  wiles. 

But  the  powers  of  darkness  yield, 
For  the  cross  is  in  the  field, 
And  the  light  of  life  reveal'd . 

Rays  from  rock  to  rock  it  darts, 
Conquers  adamantine  hearts, 
And  immortal  bliss  imparts. 

North  and  west,  receding  far 
From  the  evening's  downward  star, 
Now  I  mount  Aurora's  car  ; — 

Pale  Siberia's  deserts  shun, 

From  Kamschatka's  storm-clifFs  run, 

South  and  east,  to  meet  the  sun. 

Jealous  China,  dire  Japan, 

With  bewilder' d  eyes  I  scan, 

— They  are  but  dead  seas  of  man. 

Ages  in  succession  find 

Forms  that  change  not,  stagnant  mind, 

And  they  leave  the  same  behind. 


384  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Lo  !  the  eastern  Cyclades, 
Phoenix-nests  and  sky-blue  seas, 
— But  I  tarry  not  with  these. 

Pass  we  drear  New  Holland's  shoals, 
Where  no  ample  river  rolls, 
— World  of  unawaken'd  souls  ! 

Bring  them  forth  ; — 'tis  Heaven's  decree. 

Man,  assert  thy  liberty ; 

Let  not  brutes  look  down  on  thee. 

Either  India  next  is  seen, 

With  the  Ganges  stretch'd  between  ; 

— Ah !  what  horrors  here  have  been. 

War,  disguised  as  commerce,  came  ; 
Britain,  carrying  sword  and  flame, 
Won  an  empire, — lost  her  name. 

But  that  name  shall  be  restored, 
Law  and  justice  wield  the  sword, 
And  her  God  be  here  adored. 

By  the  Gulf  of  Persia  sail, 
Where  the  true-love  nightingale 
Wooes  the  rose  in  every  vale. 

Though  Arabia  charge  the  breeze 
With  the  incense  of  her  trees, 
On  I  press  through  southern  seas. 

Cape  of  storms,  thy  spectre  fled, 

See,  the  angel  Hope,  instead, 

Lights  from  heaven  upon  thine  head  ; — 

And  where  Table-mountain  stands, 
Barbarous  hordes  from  desert  sands 
Bless  the  sight  with  lifted  hands. 

St.  Helena's  dungeon-keep 
Scowls  defiance  o'er  the  deep ; 
There  a  warrior's  relics  sleep. 


A    VOYAGE    ROUND    THE    WORLD. 


Who  he  was,  and  how  he  fell, 

Europe,  Asia,  Afric  tell : 

On  that  theme  all  time  shall  dwell. 

But  henceforth,  till  nature  dies, 
These  three  simple  words  comprise 
All  the  future  :  "  Here  he  lies." 

Mammon's  plague-ships  throng  the  waves 
Oh  !  'twere  mercy  to  the  slaves, 
Were  the  maws  of  sharks  their  graves ! 

Not  for  all  the  gems  and  gold, 

Which  thy  streams  and  mountains  hold, 

Or  for  which  thy  sons  are  sold, — 

Land  of  negroes  !  would  I  dare 
In  this  felon-trade  to  share, 
Or  to  brand  its  guilt  forbear. 

Hercules  !  thy  pillars  stand, 
Sentinels  of  sea  and  land  ! 
Cloud-capt  Atlas  towers  at  hand. 

Where,  when  Cato's  word  was  fate, 
Fell  the  Carthaginian  state, 
And  where  exiled  Marius  sate, — 

Mark  the  dens  of  caitiff  Moors ; 
Ha  !  the  pirates  seize  their  oars  ; 
— Haste  we  from  th'  accursed  shores. 

Egypt's  hieroglyphic  realm 

Other  floods  than  Nile's  o'erwhelm, 

— Slaves  turn'd  despots  hold  the  helm. 

Judah's  cities  are  forlorn, 
Lebanon  and  Carmel  shorn, 
Zion  trampled  down  with  scorn. 

Greece,  thine  ancient  lamp  is  spent ; 
Thou  art  thine  own  monument ; 
But  the  sepulchre  is  rent, — 

S3  = 


386  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  a  wind  is  on  the  wing, 

At  whose  breath  new  heroes  spring, 

Sages  teach,  and  poets  sing. 

Italy,  thy  beauties  shroud 
In  a  gorgeous  evening  cloud; 
Thy  refulgent  head  is  bow'd. 

Rome,  in  ruins  lovely  still, 

On  her  capitolian  hill, 

Bids  thee,  mourner,  weep  thy  fill. 

Yet  where  Roman  genius  reigns, 
Roman  blood  must  warm  the  veins  ; 
— Look  well,  tyrants,  to  your  chains. 

Splendid  realm  of  old  romance, 

Spain,  thy  tower-crown' d  crest  advance, 

Grasp  the  shield,  and  couch  the  lance. 

At  the  fire-flash  of  thine  eye, 
Giant  bigotry  would  fly, 
At  thy  voice  oppression  die. 

Lusitania,  from  the  dust, 

Shake  thy  locks, — thy  cause  is  just, 

Strike  for  freedom,  strike  and  trust. 

France,  I  hurry  from  thy  shore, 
Thou  art  not  the  France  of  yore, 
Thou  art  new-born  France  no  more. 

Great  thou  wast ;  and  who  like  thee  ? 
Then  mad-drunk  with  liberty  ; 
What  now  ? — neither  great  nor  free. 

Sweep  by  Holland  like  the  blast, 
One  quick  glance  on  Denmark  cast, 
Sweden,  Russia, — all  are  past. 

Elbe  nor  Weser  tempt  my  stay ; 

Germany,  beware  the  day, 

When  thy  schools  again  bear  sway. 


HUMILITY.  387 


Now  to  thee,  to  thee  I  fly, 
Fairest  isle  beneath  the  sky, 
To  my  heart,  as  in  mine  eye. 

I  have  seen  them,  one  by  one, 
Every  shore  beneath  the  sun, 
And  my  voyage  now  is  clone. 

While  I  bid  them  all  be  blest, 
Britain  is  my  home,  my  rest ; 
— Mine  own  land !  I  love  thee  best. 


Scarborough,  December,  1S26. 


HUMILITY. 


The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing, 
Builds  on  the  ground  her  lowly  nest ; 

And  she  that  doth  most  sweetly  sing, 
Sings  in  the  shade  when^all  things  rest: 

— In  lark  and  nightingale  we  see 

What  honour  hath  humility. 

When  Mary  chose  the  "  better  part," 

She  meekly  sat  at  Jesus'  feet ; 
And  Lydia's  gently-open'd  heart 

Was  made  for  God's  own  temple  meet ; 
— Fairest  and  best  adom'd  is  she. 
Whose  clothing  is  humility. 

The  saint  that  wears  heaven's  brightest  crown, 

In  deepest  adoration  bends  ; 
The  weight  of  glory  bows  him  down, 

Then  most  when  most  his  soul  ascends ; 
— Nearest  the  throne  itself  must  be 
The  footstool  of  humility. 

1S33. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


BIRDS. 


THE    SWALLOW. 


Swallow,  why  homeward  turn'd  thy  joyful  wing  ? 

— In  a  far  land  I  heard  the  voice  of  spring ; 

I  found  myself  that  moment  on  the  way ; 

My  wings,  my  wings,  they  had  not  power  to  stay. 

SKYLARKS. 

What  hand  lets  fly  the  skylark  from  his  rest  ? 
— That  which  detains  his  mate  upon  the  nest ; 
Love  sends  him  soaring  to  the  fields  above  ; 
She  broods  below,  all  bound  with  cords  of  love. 

THE    CUCKOO. 

Why  art  thou  always  welcome,  lonely  bird  ? 

— The  heart  grows  young  again  when  I  am  heard ; 

Nor  in  my  double  note  the  magic  lies, 

But  in  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  streams,  and  skies. 

THE    RED-BREAST. 

Familiar  warbler,  wherefore  art  thou  come  ? 
—To  sing  to  thee,  when  all  beside  are  dumb  ; 
Pray  let  thy  little  children  drop  a  crumb. 

THE    SPARROW. 

Sparrow,  the  gun  is  levell'd,  quit  that  wall. 
—Without  the  will  of  heaven  I  cannot  fall. 

THE    RING-DOVE. 

Art  thou  the  bird  that  saw  the  Avaters  cease  ? 
— Yes,  and  brought  home  the  olive-leaf  of  peace  ; 
Henceforth  I  haunt  the  woods  of  thickest  green, 
Pleased  to  be  often  heard,  but  seldom  seen. 


BIRDS. 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 

Minstrel,  what  makes  thy  song  so  sad,  so  sweet  ? 
— Love,  love  ; — there  agony  and  rapture  meet ; 
O  'tis  the  dream  of  happiness,  to  feign 
Sorrow  in  joy,  and  wring  delight  from  pain  ! 

THE    WATER-WAGTAIL. 

What  art  thou  made  of, — air,  or  light,  or  dew  ? 
— I  have  no  time  to  tell  you,  if  I  knew  ; 
My  tail, — ask  that, — perhaps  may  solve  the  matter: 
I've  miss'd  three  flies  already  by  this  chatter. 

THE    WREN. 

Wren,  canst  thou  squeeze  into  a  hole  so  small  ? 
— A)^,  with  nine  nestlings  too,  and  room  for  all ; 
Go,  compass  sea  and  land  in  search  of  bliss, 
Then  tell  me  if  you  find  a  happier  home  than  this. 

THE    THRUSH. 

Thrush,  thrush,  have  mercy  on  thy  little  bill. 
— "  I  play  to  please  myself,  albeit  ill  ;"* 
And  yet,  but  how  it  comes  I  cannot  tell, 
My  singing  pleases  all  the  world  as  well. 

THE    BLACKBIRD. 

Well  done! — they're  noble  notes,  distinct  and  strong 

Yet  more  variety  mi^ht  mend  the  sono-. 

— Is  there  another  bird  that  chants  like  me  ? 

My  pipe  gives  all  the  grove  variety. 

THE    BULLFINCH. 

Bully,  what  fairy  warbles  in  thy  throat? 
— Oh  ! — for  the  freedom  of  my  own  wild  note  ! 
Art  has  enthrall' d  my  voice  ;  I  strive  in  vain 
To  break  the  "linked  sweetness"  of  mv  chain  ; 
Love,  joy,  rage,  grief,  ring  one  melodious  strain. 


Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calendar.    June. 


390  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

THE    GOLDFINCH. 

Live  with  me,  love  me,  pretty  goldfinch,  do  ! 
— Ay,  pretty  maid,  and  be  a  slave  to  you ; 
Wear  chains,  fire  squibs,  draw  water, — nay,  not  I, 
While  I've  a  bill  to  peck,  or  wing  to  fly. 

THE    STONE-CHAT. 

Why  art  thou  ever  flitting  to  and  fro  ? 

— Plunge  through  these  whins,  their  thorns  will  let  thee 

know. 
There  are  five  secrets  brooding  here  in  night, 
Which  my  good  mate  will  duly  bring  to  light ; 
Meanwhile  she  sees  the  ants  around  her  throngf, 
And  hears  the  grasshopper  chirp  all  day  long. 

THE    GRAY    LINNET. 

Linnet,  canst  thou  not  change  that  humble  coat  ? 
Linnet,  canst  thou  not  mellow  that  sharp  note  ? 
— If  rude  my  song,  and  mean  my  garb  appear, 
Have  you,  sir,  eyes  to  see,  or  ears  to  hear  ? 

THE    RED    LINNET. 

Sweet  is  thy  warble,  beautiful  thy  plume  ! 

— Catch  me  and  cage  me,  then  behold  my  doom  ; 

My  throat  will  fail,  my  colour  wane  away, 


And  the  red  linnet  soon  become  a  gray. 


THE    CHAFFINCH. 

Stand  still  a  moment  ! 

— Spare  your  idle  words, 
I'm  the  perpetual  mobile  of  birds  ; 
My  days  are  running,  rippling,  twittering  streams, 
When  fast  asleep  I'm  all  afloat  in  dreams. 

THE    CANARY. 

Dost  thou  not  languish  for  thy  father-land, 
Madeira's  fragrant  woods  and  billowy  strand  ? 

*  Some  naturalists  say  that  this  actually  happens. 


BIRDS.  391 


— My  cage  is  father-land  enough  for  me  ; 

Your  parlour  all  the  world, — heaven,  earth,  and  sea. 

THE    TOMTIT. 

Least,  nimblest,  merriest  bird  of  Albion's  isle, 
I  cannot  look  on  thee  without  a  smile. 
— I  envy  thee  the  sight,  for  all  my  glee 
Could  never  yet  extort  a  smile  from  me  ; 
Think  what  a  tiresome  thing  my  life  must  be. 

THE    SWIFT. 

Why  ever  on  the  wing,  or  perch'd  elate  ? 
— Because  I  fell  not  from  my  first  estate ; 
This  is  my  charter  for  the  boundless  skies, 
"  Stoop  not  to  earth,  on  pain  no  more  to  rise." 

THE    KING-FISHER. 

Why  dost  thou  hide  thy  beauty  from  the  sun  ? 
— The  eye  of  man,  but  not  of  Heaven,  I  shun  ; 
Beneath  the  mossy  bank,  with  alders  crown'd, 
I  build  and  brood  where  running  waters  sound ; 
There,  there  the  halcyon  peace  may  still  be  found. 

THE    WOODLARK. 

Thy  notes  are  silenced,  and  thy  plumage  mew'd ; 
Say,  drooping  minstrel,  both  shall  be  renew'd. 
— Voice  will  return, — I  cannot  choose  but  sing ; 
Yet  liberty  alone  can  plume  my  wing ; 
Oh  !  give  me  that ! — I  will  not,  cannot  fly 
Within  a  cage  less  ample  than  the  sky ; 
Then  shalt  thou  hear,  as  if  an  angel  sung, 
Unseen  in  air,  heaven's  music  from  my  tongue  : 
Oh  !  give  me  that ! — I  cannot  rest  at  ease 
On  meaner  perches  than  the  forest  trees ; 
There,  in  thy  walk,  while  evening  shadows  roll, 
My  song  shall  melt  into  thine  inmost  soul  5 
But,  till  thou  let  thy  captive  bird  depart, 
The  sweetness  of  my  strain  shall  wring  thy  heart. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    COCK. 

Who  taught  thee,  chanticleer,  to  count  the  clock  ? 
— Nay,  who  taught  man  that  lesson  but  the  cock ! 
Long  before  wheels  and  bells  had  learn'd  to  chime, 
I  told  the  steps  unseen,  unheard,  of  time. 

THE    JACK-DAW. 

Canst  thou  remember  that  unlucky  day, 

When  all  thy  peacock-plumes  were  pluck'd  away  ? 

— Remember  it  ? — believe  me  that  I  can, 

With  right  good  cause,  for  I  was  then  a  man ! 

And  for  my  folly,  by  a  wise  old  law, 

Stript,  whipt,  tarr'd,  feather'd,  turn'd  into  a  daw : 

— Pray,  how  d'ye  like  my  answer  ?  Caw,  caw,  caw  ! 

THE    BAT. 

What  shall  I  call  thee, — bird,  or  beast,  or  neither? 
— Just  what  you  will ;  I'm  rather  both  than  either ; 
Much  like  the  season  when  I  whirl  my  flight, 
The  dusk  of  evening, — neither  day  nor  night. 

THE    OWL. 

Blue-eyed,  strange-voiced,  sharp-beak'd,  ill-omen'd  fowl, 
What  art  thou  ? 

— What  I  ought  to  be,  an  owl ; 
But  if  I'm  such  a  scarecrow  in  your  eye, 
You're  a  much  greater  fright  in  mine  ; — good-by  ! 

ROOKS. 

What  means  that  riot  in  your  citadel  ? 
Be  honest,  peaceable,  like  brethren  dwell. 
— How,  while  we  live  so  near  to  man,  can  life 
Be  any  thing  but  knavery,  noise,  and  strife  ? 

THE    JAY. 

Thou  hast  a  crested  poll,  a  scutcheon'd  wing, 

Fit  for  a  herald  of  the  eagle  king, 

But  such  a  voice  !  I  would  that  thou  couldst  sing ! 


BIRDS.  393 


— My  bill  has  tougher  work, — to  scream  for  fright, 
And  then,  when  screaming  will  not  do,  to  bite. 

THE    PEACOCK. 

Peacock  !  of  idle  beauty,  why  so  vain  ? 

— And  art  thou  humble,  who  hast  no  proud  train  ? 

It  is  not  vanity,  but  nature's  part, 

To  show,  by  me,  the  cunning  of  her  art. 

THE    SWAN. 

Sing  me,  fair  swan,  that  song  which  poets  dream. 
— Stand  thou  an  hundred  years  beside  this  stream, 
Then  may'st  thou  hear,  perchance,  my  latest  breath 
"  Create  a  soul  beneath  the  ribs  of  death."* 

THE    PHEASANT. 

Pheasant,  forsake  the  country,  come  to  town ; 
I'll  warrant  thee  a  place  beneath  the  crown. 
— No;  not  to  roost  upon  the  throne,  would  I 
Renounce  the  woods,  the  mountains,  and  the  sky. 

THE    RAVEN. 

Thin  is  thy  plumage,  death  is  in  thy  croak ; 
Raven,  come  down  from  that  majestic  oak. 
— When  I  was  hatch'd,  my  father  set  this  tree, 
An  acorn  ;  and  its  fall  I  hope  to  see, 
A  century  after  thou  hast  ceased  to  be. 

THE    PARROT. 

Camest  thou  from  India,  popinjay, — and  why  ? 
— To  make  thy  children  open  car  and  eye, 
Gaze  on  my  feathers,  wonder  at  my  talk, 
And  think  'tis  almost  time  for  Poll  to  walk. 

THE    MAGPIE. 

Magpie,  thou  too  hast  learn'd  by  rote  to  speak 
Words  without  meaning,  through  thy  uncouth  beak. 

*  Milton's  Comas. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


— Words  have  I  learn'd  ?  and  without  meaning  too  ? 
No  wonder,  sir,  for  I  was  taught  by  you. 

THE    CORN-CRAKE. 

Art  thou  a  sound,  and  nothing  but  a  sound  ? 
■ — Go  round  the  field,  and  round  the  field,  and  round, 
You'll  find  my  voice  for  ever  changing  ground  ; 
And  while  your  ear  pursues  my  creaking  cry, 
You  look  as  if  you  heard  it  with  your  eye. 

THE    STORK. 

Stork,  why  were  human  virtues  given  to  thee  ? 
— That  human  beings  might  resemble  me ; 
Kind  to  my  offspring,  to  my  partner  true, 
And  duteous  to  my  parents, — what  are  you  ? 

THE    WOODPECKER. 

Rap,  rap,  rap,  rap,  I  hear  thy  knocking  bill, 
Then  thy  strange  outcry,  when  the  woods  are  still. 
— Thus  am  I  ever  labouring  for  my  bread, 
And  thus  give  thanks  to  find  my  table  spread. 

THE    HAWK. 

A  life  at  every  meal,  rapacious  hawk ! 
Spare  helpless  innocence ! 

— Troth,  pleasant  talk  ! 
Yon  swallow  snaps  more  lives  up  in  a  day 
Than  in  a  twelvemonth  I  could  take  away. 
But  hark,  most  gentle  censor,  in  your  ear, 
A  word,  a  whisper, — you — are  you  quite  clear  ? 
Creation's  groans,  through  ocean,  earth,  and  sky, 
Ascend  from  all  that  walk,  or  swim,  or  fly. 

VULTURES. 

Abominable  harpies,  spare  the  dead. 
— We  only  clear  the  field  which  man  has  spread  ; 
On  which  should  Heaven  its  hottest  vengeance  rain  ? 
You  slay  the  living,  we  but  strip  the  slain. 


BIRDS.  305 


THE    HUMMING    BIRD. 


Art  thou  a  bird,  or  bee,  or  butterfly  ? 
— Each  and  all  three. — A  bird  in  shape  am  I, 
A  bee  collecting  sweets  from  bloom  to  bloom, 
A  butterfly  in  brilliancy  of  plume. 


THE    EAGLE. 


Art  thou  the  king  of  birds,  proud  eagle,  say  ? 
—I  am  ;  my  talons  and  my  beak  bear  sway  ; 
A  greater  king  than  I,  if  thou  wouldst  be, 
Govern  thy  tongue,  but  let  thy  thoughts  be  free. 


THE    PELICAN. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness,  what  is  thy  name  ? 
— The  pelican  ! — go,  take  the  trump  of  fame, 
And  if  thou  give  the  honour  due  to  me, 
The  world  may  talk  a  little  more  of  thee. 

THE    HERON. 

Stock-still  upon  that  stone,  from  day  to  day, 

I  see  thee  watch  the  river  for  thy  prey. 

— Yes,  I'm  the  tyrant  here  ;  but  when  I  rise, 

The  well-train' d  falcon  braves  me  in  the  skies  ; 

Then  comes  the  tug  of  war,  of  strength  and  skill. 

He  dies,  impaled  on  my  updarted  bill, 

Or,  powerless  in  his  grasp,  my  doom  I  meet, 

Dropt  as  a  trophy  at  his  master's  feet. 

THE    BIRD    OF    PARADISE. 

The  bird  of  paradise  ! 

— That  name  I  bear, 
Though  I  am  nothing  but  a  bird  of  air : 
Thou  art  a  child  of  earth,  and  yet  to  thee, 
Lost  and  recover'd,  paradise  is  free  : 
Oh!  that  such  glory  were  reserved  for  me  ! 


396  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

THE    OSTRICH. 

Hast  thou  expell'd  the  mother  from  thy  breast, 
And  to  the  desert's  mercies  left  thy  nest  1 
— Ah !  no,  the  mother  in  me  knows  her  part ; 
Yon  glorious  sun  is  warmer  than  my  heart ; 
And  when  to  light  he  brings  my  hungry  brood, 
He  spreads  for  them  the  wilderness  with  food. 


THE  GENTIANELLA. 

IN   LEAF. 

Green  thou  art,  obscurely  green, 
Meanest  plant  among  the  mean  ! 

From  the  dust  I  took  my  birth ; 
Thou,  too,  art  a  child  of  earth ; 
I  aspire  not  to  be  great ; 
Scorn  not  thou  my  low  estate ; 
Time  will  come  when  thou  shalt  see 
Honour  crown  humility, 
Beauty  set  her  seal  on  me. 

IN   FLOWER. 

Blue  thou  art,  intensely  blue, 

Flower,  whence  came  thy  dazzling  hue  ? 

When  I  open'd  first  mine  eye, 
Upward  glancing  to  the  sky, 
Straightway  from  the  firmament 
Was  the  sapphire  brilliance  sent. 
Brighter  glory  wouldst  thou  share, 
Do  what  I  did, — look  up  there; 
What  I  could  not, — look  with  prayer ! 


A    LUCID    INTERVAL.  397 


A  LUCID  INTERVAL. 

Oh  !  light  is  pleasant  to  the  eye, 

And  health  comes  rustling  on  the  gale  ; 

Clouds  arc  careering  through  the  sky, 

Whose  shadows  mock  them  down  the  dale  ; 

Nature  as  fresh  and  fragrant  seems 

As  I  have  met  her  in  my  dreams. 

For  I  have  been  a  prisoner  long 
In  gloom  and  loneliness  of  mind  ; 

Deaf  to  the  melody  of  song, 
To  every  form  of  beauty  blind  ; 

Nor  morning  dew,  nor  evening  balm, 

Might  cool  my  cheek,  my  bosom  calm. 

But  now  the  blood,  the  blood  returns 

With  rapturous  pulses  through  my  veins  ; 

My  heart  from  out  its  ashes  burns  ; 

My  limbs  break  loose,  they  cast  their  chains  ; 

New  kindled  at  the  sun,  my  sight 

Tracks  to  a  point  the  eagle's  flight. 

I  long  to  climb  those  old  gray  rocks, 
Glide  with  yon  river  to  the  deep, 

Range  the  green  hills  with  herds  and  flocks, 
Free  as  the  roebuck  run  and  leap  ; 

Or  mount  the  lark's  victorious  wino-, 

And  from  the  depth  of  ether  sing. 

O  earth  !  in  maiden  innocence, 

Too  early  fled  thy  golden  time  ; 
O  earth  !  earth  !  earth  !  for  man's  offence, 

Doom'd  to  dishonour  in  thy  prime  ; 
Of  how  much  glory  then  bereft ! 
Yet  what  a  world  of  bliss  is  left ! 

The  thorn,  harsh  emblem  of  the  curse, 
Puts  forth  a  paradise  of  flowers  ; 

34 


398  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Labour,  man's  punishment,  is  nurse 

To  home-born  joys  at  sunset  hour  ; 
Plague,  earthquake,  famine,  want,  disease, 
Give  birth  to  holiest  charities. 

And  death  itself,  with  all  the  woes 
That  hasten,  yet  prolong  his  stroke, 

Death  brings  with  every  pang  repose, 
With  every  sigh  he  solves  a  yoke  ; 

Yea,  his  cold  sweats  and  moaning  strife 

Wring  out  the  bitterness  of  life. 

Life,  life  with  all  its  burdens  dear ! 

Friendship  is  sweet,  love  sweeter  still ; 
Who  would  forego  a  smile,  a  tear, 

One  generous  hope,  one  chastening  ill  ? 
Home,  kindred,  country, — these  are  ties 
Might  keep  an  angel  from  the  skies. 

But  these  have  angels  never  known ; 

Unvex'd  felicity  their  lot ; 
The  sea  of  glass  before  the  throne, 

Storm,  lightning,  shipwreck,  visit  not ; 
Oar  tides,  beneath  the  changing  moon, 
Are  soon  appeased,  are  troubled  soon. 

Well,  I  would  bear  what  all  have  borne, 
Live  my  few  years,  and  fill  my  place, 

O'er  old  and  young  affections  mourn, 
Rent  one  by  one  from  my  embrace, 

Till  suffering  ends,  and  I  have  done 

With  every  thing  beneath  the  sun. 

Whence  came  I  ? — Memory  cannot  say  ; 

What  am  I  ? — Knowledge  will  not  show 
Bound  whither  ? — Ah  !  away,  away, 

Far  as  eternity  can  go : — 
Thy  love  to  win,  thy  wrath  to  flee, 
O  God  !  thyself  my  teacher  be. 

1823. 


WORMS    AND    FLOWERS.  399 


WORMS  AND  FLOWERS. 

You're  spinning-  for  my  lady,  worm ! 

Silk  garments  for  the  fair ; 
You're  spinning  rainbows  for  a  form 

More  beautiful  than  air, 
When  air  is  bright  with  sunbeams, 

And  morning  mists  arise 
From  woody  vales  and  mountain  streams, 

To  blue  autumnal  skies. 

You're  spinning  for  my  lady,  flower! 

You're  training  for  my  love, 
The  glory  of  her  summer-bower, 

While  skylarks  soar  above  : 
Go,  twine  her  locks  with  rose-buds, 

Or  breathe  upon  her  breast, 
While  zephyrs  curl  the  water-floods 

And  rock  the  halcyon's  nest. 

But  oh  !  there  is  another  worm 

Ere  long  will  visit  her, 
And  revel  on  her  lovely  form, 

In  the  dark  sepulchre  : 
Yet  from  that  sepulchre  shall  spring 

A  flower  as  sweet  as  this  ; 
Hard  by  the  nightingale  shall  sing, 

Soft  winds  its  petals  kiss. 

Frail  emblems  of  frail  beauty,  ye  ! 

In  beauty  who  would  trust? 
Since  all  that  charms  the  eye  must  be 

Consign'd  to  worms  and  dust : 
Yet  like  the  flower  that  decks  her  tomb, 

Her  spirit  shall  quit  the  sod, 
To  shine  in  amaranthine  bloom, 

Fast  by  the  throne  of  God. 

1834. 


400  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  RECLUSE. 

A  fountain  issuing  into  light, 

Before  a  marble  palace,  threw 
To  heaven  its  column,  pure  and  bright, 

Returning  thence  in  showers  of  dew  ; 
But  soon  an  humbler  course  it  took, 
And  glid  away  a  nameless  brook. 

Flowers  on  its  grassy  margin  sprang, 
Flies  o'er  its  eddying  surface  play'd, 

Birds  midst  the  alder-branches  sang, 

Flocks  through  the  verdant  meadows  stray'd ; 

The  weary  there  lay  down  to  rest, 

And  there  the  halcyon  built  her  nest. 

'Twas  beautiful,  to  stand  and  watch 
The  fountain's  crystal  turn  to  gems, 

And  from  the  sky  such  colours  catch, 
As  if  'twere  raining  diadems  ; 

Yet  all  was  cold  and  curious  art, 

That  charm'd  the  eye,  but  miss'd  the  heart. 

Dearer  to  me  the  little  stream, 

Whose  unimprison'd  waters  run, 
Wild  as  the  changes  of  a  dream, 

By  rock  and  glen,  through  shade  and  sun ; 
Its  lovely  links  had  power  to  bind 
In  welcome  chains  my  wandering  mind. 

So  thought  I,  when  I  saw  the  face 

By  happy  portraiture  reveal'd, 
Of  one,  adom'd  with  every  grace, 

— Her  name  and  date  from  me  conceal'd, 
But  not  her  story ; — she  had  been 
The  pride  of  many  a  splendid  scene. 


TIME. 


She  cast  her  glory  round  a  court, 
And  frolick'd  in  the  gayest  ring, 

Where  fashion's  high-born  minions  sport, 
Like  sparkling  fire-flies  on  the  wing ; 

But  thence,  when  love  had  touch'd  her  soul, 

To  nature  and  to  truth  she  stole. 

From  din,  and  pageantry,  and  strife, 

Midst  woods  and  mountains,  vales  and  plains, 

She  treads  the  paths  of  lowly  life, 
Yet  in  a  bosom-circle  reigns, 

No  fountain  scattering  diamond  showers, 

But  the  sweet  streamlet  watering  flowers. 

1829. 


TIME: 

A    RHAPSODY. 

Sed  fugit,  interea,  fugit  irreparabile  tempus. 

Vine.  Geurg.  iii.  281. 

'Tis  a  mistake  :  time  flies  not, 

He  only  hovers  on  the  wing : 
Once  born,  the  moment  dies  not, 

'Tis  an  immortal  thing  ; 
While  all  is  change  beneath  the  sky, 
Fix'd  like  the  sun,  as  learned  sages  prove, 
Though  from  our  moving  world  he  seems  to  move, 
'Tis  time  stands  still,  and  we  that  fly. 

There  is  no  past ;  from  nature's  birth, 
Days,  months,  years,  ages,  till  the  end 

Of  these  revolving  heavens  and  earth, 
All  to  one  centre  tend  ; 

And,  having  reach'd  it  late  or  soon, 
Converge, — as  in  a  lens,  the  rays, 


402  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Caught  from  the  fountain-light  of  noon, 
Blend  in  a  point  that  blinds  the  gaze : 
— What  has  been  is,  what  is  shall  last ; 
The  present  is  the  focus  of  the  past ; 
The  future,  perishing  as  it  arrives, 
Becomes  the  present,  and  itself  survives. 

Time  is  not  progress,  but  amount; 

One  vast  accumulating  store, 
Laid  up,  not  lost ; — we  do  not  count 

Years  gone  but  added  to  the  score 
Of  wealth  untold,  to  clime  nor  class  confined, 
Riches  to  generations  lent, 
For  ever  spending,  never  spent, 
Th'  august  inheritance  of  all  mankind. 
Of  this,  from  Adam  to  his  latest  heir, 
All  in  due  turn  their  portion  share, 
Which,  as  they  husband  or  abuse, 
"Their  souls  they  win  or  lose. 

Though  history,  on  her  faded  scrolls, 
Fragments  of  facts,  and  wrecks  of  names  enrols, 
Time's  indefatigable  fingers  write 
Men's  meanest  actions  on  their  souls, 
In  lines  which  not  himself  can  blot : 

These  the  last  day  shall  bring  to  light, 
Though  through  long  centuries  forgot, 

When  hearts  and  sepulchres  are  bared  to  sight. 

Then,  having  fill'd  his  measure  up, 

Amidst  his  own  assembled  progeny, 

(All  that  have  been,  that  are,  or  yet  may  be,) 

Before  the  great  white  throne, 

To  Him  who  sits  thereon, 

Time  shall  present  th'  amalgamating  cup, 

In  which,  as  in  a  crucible,    • 

He  hid  the  moments  as  they  fell, 

More  precious  than  Golconda's  gems, 

Or  stars  in  angels'  diadems, 


TO    A    FRIEND.  403 


Though  to  our  eyes  they  seem'd  to  pass 

Like  sands  through  his  symbolic  glass : 

But  now,  the  process  done, 

Of  millions  multiplied  by  millions,  none 

Shall  there  be  wanting, — while  by  change 

Ineffable  and  strange, 

All  shall  appear  at  once,  all  shall  appear  as  one. 

Ah  !  then  shall  each  of  Adam's  race, 

In  that  concenter'd  instant,  trace, 

Upon  the  tablet  of  his  mind, 

His  whole  existence  in  a  thought  combined, 

Thenceforth  to  part  no  more,  but  be 

Impictured  on  his  memory  ; 

— As  in  the  image-chamber  of  the  eye, 

Seen  at  a  glance,  in  clear  perspective,  he 

Myriads  of  forms  of  ocean,  earth,  and  sky. 

Then  shall  be  shown,  that  but  in  name 
Time  and  eternity  were  both  the  same ; 
A  point  which  life  nor  death  could  sever, 
A  moment  standing  still  for  ever. 

1S33. 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  THE  FOREGOING  LUCUBRATION. 

May  she  for  whom  these  lines  are  penn'd, 
By  using  well,  make  time  her  friend  ; 
Then,  whether  he  stands  still  or  flies, 
Whether  the  moment  lives  or  dies. 
She  need  not  care, — for  time  will  be 
Her  friend  to  all  eternity. 


404  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  RETREAT. 

Written  on  finding  a  copy  of  verses  in  a  small  edifice  so  named,  at  Raithby,  in 
Lincolnshire,  the  seat  of  R.  C.  Brackenbury,  to  whom  the  author  made  a  visit 
in  the  autumn  of  1815,  after  a  severe  illness. 

A  stranger  sat  down  in  the  lonely  retreat ; — 

Though  kindness  had  welcomed  him  there, 
Yet  weary  with  travel,  and  fainting  with  heat, 

His  bosom  was  sadden'd  with  care  : 
That  sinking  of  spirit  they  only  can  know, 

Whose  joys  are  all  chasten'd  with  fears  ; 
^Whose  waters  of  comfort,  though  deeply  they  flow, 

Still  wind  through  the  valley  of  tears. 

What  ails  thee,  O  stranger !  but  open  thine  eye, 

A  paradise  bursts  on  thy  view ; 
The  sun  in  full  glory  is  marching  on  high 

Through  cloudless  and  infinite  blue  : 
The  woods,  in  their  wildest  luxuriance  display'd, 

Are  stretching  their  coverts  of  green, 
While  bright  from  the  depth  of  their  innermost  shade, 

Yon  mirror  of  waters  is  seen. 

There  richly  reflected,  the  mansion,  the  lawn, 

The  banks  and  the  foliage  appear, 
By  nature's  own  pencil  enchantingly  drawn, 

— A  landscape  enshrined  in  a  sphere  ; 
While  the  fish  in  their  element  sport  to  and  fro, 

Quick  glancing  or  gliding  at  ease, 
The  birds  seem  to  fly  in  a  concave  below, 

Through  a  vista  of  down-growing  trees. 

The  current,  unrippled  by  volatile  airs, 

Now  glitters,  now  darkens  along, 
And  yonder  o'erflowing,  incessantly  bears 

Symphonious  accordance  to  song  : 


THE    RETREAT. 


— The  song  of  the  ring-dove  enamour'd,  that  floats 

Like  soft-melting  murmurs  of  grief; 
-—The  song  of  the  red-breast,  in  ominous  notes, 

Foretelling  the  fall  of  the  leaf: 

— The  song  of  the  bee,  in  its  serpentine  flight, 

From  blossom  to  blossom  that  roves  ; 
— The  song  of  the  wind,  in  the  silence  of  night, 

When  it  wakens  or  hushes  the  groves : 
— Thus  sweet  in  the  chorus  of  rapture  and  love, 

Which  God  in  his  temple  attends, 
With  the  song  of  all  nature  beneath  and  above, 

The  voice  of  these  waters  ascends. 

The  beauty,  the  music,  the  bliss  of  that  scene, 

With  ravishing  sympathy  stole 
Through  the  stranger's  lorn  bosom,  illumined  his  mien, 

And  soothed  and  exalted  his  soul : 
Cold,  gloomy  forebodings  then  vanish'd  away, 

His  terrors  to  ecstasies  turn, 
As  the  vapours  of  night,  at  the  dawning  of  day, 

With  splendour  and  loveliness  burn. 

The  stranger  reposed  in  the  lonely  retreat, 

Now  smiling  at  phantoms  gone  by, 
When,  lo  !  a  new  welcome,  in  numbers  most  sweet, 

Saluted  his  ear  through  his  eye  : 
It  came  to  his  eye,  but  it  went  to  his  soul ; 

— Some  muse,  as  she  wander' d  that  way, 
Had  dropt  from  her  bosom  a  mystical  scroll, 

Whose  secrets  I  dare  not  betray. 

Strange  tones,  we  are  told,  the  pale  mariner  hears, 

When  the  mermaids  ascend  from  their  caves, 
And  sing,  where  the  moon's  lengthen'd  image  appears 

A  column  of  gold  on  the  waves  ; 
— And  wild  notes  of  wonder  the  shepherd  entrance, 

Who  dreaming  beholds  in  the  vale, 
By  torchlight  of  glow-worms,  the  fairies  that  dance 

To  minstrelsy  piped  in  the  gale. 


406  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Not  less  to  that  stranger,  mysteriously  brought, 

With  harmony  deep  and  refined, 
In  language  of  feeling  and  music  of  thought, 

Those  numbers  were  heard  in  his  mind : 
Then  quick  beat  the  pulse  which  had  languidly  crept, 

And  sent  through  his  veins  a  spring-tide  ; 
It  seem'd  as  the  harp  of  a  seraph  were  swept 

By  a  spirit  that  sung  at  his  side. 

All  ceased  in  a  moment,  and  nothing  was  heard, 

And  nothing  was  seen,  through  the  wood, 
But  the  twittering  cry  of  a  fugitive  bird, 

And  the  sunset  that  blazed  on  the  flood  : 
He  rose,  for  the  shadows  of  evening  grew  long, 

And  narrow  the  glimpses  between ; 
The  owl  in  his  ambush  was  whooping  his  song, 

And  the  gossamer  gJanced  on  the  green. 

Oft  pausing,  and  hearkening,  and  turning  his  eye, 

He  left  the  sequester' d  retreat ; 
As  the  stars  in  succession  awoke  through  the  sky, 

And  the  moon  of  the  harvest  shone  sweet ; 
So  pure  was  her  lustre,  so  lovely  and  bright, 

So  soft  on  the  landscape  it  lay, 
The  shadows  appear'd  but  the  slumber  of  light, 

And  the  night-scene  a  dream  of  the  day. 

He  walk'd  to  the  mansion, — though  silent  his  tongue, 

And  his  heart  with  its  fulness  opprest, 
His  spirit  within  him  melodiously  sung 

The  feelings  that  throbb'd  in  his  breast : 
— "  Oh  !  ye,  who  inherit  this  privileged  spot ! 

All  blooming  like  Eden  of  yore, 
What  earth  can  afford  is  already  your  lot, 

With  the  promise  of  '  life  evermore.' 

"  Here,  oft  as  to  strangers  your  table  is  spread, 

May  angels  sit  down  at  your  board ; 
Here,  oft  as  the  poor  by  your  bounty  are  fed, 

Be  charity  shown  to  your  Lord ; 


THE    LILY.  407 


Thus  walking-  with  God  in  your  paradise  here, 

In  humble  communion  of  love, 
At  length  may  your  spirits,  when  He  shall  appear, 

Be  caught  up  to  glory  above." 


THE  LILY. 

TO    A    lOr.VG    LADY,    E.    P. 


Flower  of  light,  forget  thy  birth, 
Daughter  of  the  sordid  earth, 
Lift  the  beauty  of  thine  eye 
To  the  blue  ethereal  sky  ! 

While  thy  graceful  buds  unfold 
Silver  petals  starr'd  with  gold, 
Let  the  bee  among  thy  bells 
Rifle  their  ambrosial  cells, 
And  the  nimble-pi nion'd  air 
Waft  thy  breath  to  heaven  like  prayer. 
Cloud  and  sun  alternate  shed 
Gloom  or  glory  round  thine  head ; 
Morn  impearl  thy  leaves  with  dews, 
Evening  lend  them  rosy  hues, 
Noon  with  snow-white  splendour  bless, 
Night  with  olow-worm  jewels  dress. 
— Thus  fulfil  thy  summer-day, 
Spring,  and  flourish,  and  decay  ; 
Live  a  life  of  fragrance, — then 
Disappear, — to  rise  again, 
When  thy  sisters  of  the  vale 
Welcome  back  the  nightingale. 

So  may  she,  whose  name  I  write, 
Be  herself  a  flower  of  light, 
Live  a  life  of  innocence, 
Die  to  be  transplanted  hence 
To  that  garden  in  the  skies, 
Where  the  lily  never  dies. 

1S29. 


408  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  SKY-LARK. 
(addressed  to  a  friend.) 

On  hearing  one  singing  at  daybreak,  during  a  sharp  frost,  on  the  17th  of  Februa- 
ry, 1832,  while  the  author  was  on  travel,  between  Bath  and  Stroud. 

O  warn  away  the  gloomy  night, 
With  music  make  the  welkin  ring, 
Bird  of  the  dawn ! — On  joyful  wing, 

Soar  through  thine  element  of  light, 

Till  naught  in  heaven  mine  eye  can  see, 
Except  the  morning  star  and  thee. 

O  welcome  in  the  cheerful  day ! 

Through  rosy  clouds  the  shades  retire, 
The  sun  hath  touch'd  thy  plumes  with  fire, 

And  girt  thee  with  a  golden  ray : 

Now  shape  and  voice  are  vanish' d  quite, 
Nor  eye  nor  ear  can  track  thy  flight. 

Could  I  translate  thy  strains,  and  give 
Words  to  thy  notes  in  human  tongue, 
The  sweetest  lay  that  e'er  I  sung, 

The  lay  that  would  the  longest  live, 
I  might  record  upon  this  page, 
And  sing  thy  song  from  age  to  age. 

But  speech  of  mine  can  ne'er  reveal 

Secrets  so  freely  told  above, 

Yet  is  their  burden  joy  and  love, 
And  all  the  bliss  a  bird  can  feel, 

Whose  wing  in  heaven  to  earth  is  bound, 

Whose  home  and  heart  are  on  the  ground. 

Unlike  the  lark  be  thou,  my  friend ! 

No  downward  cares  thy  thoughts  engage, 


THE    FIXED    STARS.  409 


But  in  thine  house  of  pilgrimage, 
Though  from  the  ground  thy  songs  ascend, 
Still  be  their  burden  joy  and  love  : 
— Heaven  is  thy  home,  thy  heart  above. 


THE  FIXED  STARS. 


Reign  in  your  heaven,  ye  stars  of  light ! 

Beyond  this  troubled  scene  ; 
With  you,  fair  orbs  !  there  is  no  night, 

Eternally  serene, 
Each  casts  around  its  tranquil  way. 
The  radiance  of  its  own  clear  day ; 
Yet  not  unborrowed. — What  are  ye  ? 
Mirrors  of  Deity  : 
My  soul,  in  your  reflective  rays, 
Him  whom  no  eye  hath  seen  surveys, 
As  I  behold  (himself  too  bright  for  view) 
The  sun  in  every  drop  of  dew. 

The  gloom  that  brings,  through  evening  skies, 

Your  beauty  from  the  deep  ; 
The  clouds  that  hide  you  from  our  eyes  ; 

The  storms  that  seem  to  sweep 
Your  scatter'd  train,  like  vessels  tost 
On  ocean's  waves,  now  seen,  now  lost  ; 
— Belong  to  our  inferior  ball, 
Ye  shine  above  them  all : 
Your  splendour  noon  eclipses  not, 
Nor  night  reveals,  nor  vapours  blot ; 
O'er  us,  not  you,  these  changes  come  and  pass ; 
Ye  navigate  a  sea  of  glass. 

35 


410  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Thus,  on  their  hyaline  above, 

In  constellations  stand 
The  tribes  redeem'd  by  sovereign  love  : 

— Crown'd  and  with  harp  in  hand, 
They  sing  before  the  great  I  AM, 
The  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb ; 
Returning  in  perpetual  streams 
His  own  all-lightening  beams. 
Theirs  be  thy  portion,  O  my  soul ! 
That  while  heaven's  years  self-circling  roll, 
I  may,  among  the  ransom'd — they  in  me, 
And  I  in  them, — God's  image  see. 

1834. 


A  CRY  FROM  SOUTH  AFRICA ; 

On  building  a  Chapel  at  Cape  Town,  for  the  Negro  Slaves  of  the  colony,  in 

Afric,  from  her  remotest  strand, 

Lifts  to  high  heaven  one  fetter'd  hand, 

And  to  the  utmost  of  her  chain 

Stretches  the  other  o'er  the  main  : 

Then,  kneeling  'midst  ten  thousand  slaves, 

Utters  a  cry  across  the  waves, 

Of  power  to  reach  to  either  pole, 

And  pierce,  like  conscience,  through  the  soul, 

Though  dreary,  faint,  and  low  the  sound, 

Like  life-blood  gurgling  from  a  wound, 

As  if  her  heart,  before  it  broke, 

Had  found  a  human  tongue,  and  spoke. 

"  Britain  !  not  now  I  ask  of  thee 
Freedom,  the  right  of  bond  and  free  ; 
Let  Mammon  hold,  while  Mammon  can, 
The  bones  and  blood  of  living  man ; 
Let  tyrants  scorn,  while  tyrants  dare, 
The  shrieks  and  writhings  of  despair  ; 


A    CRY    FROM    SOUTH    AFRICA.  411 

An  end  will  come — it  will  not  wait, 
Bands,  yokes,  and  scourges  have  their  date, 
Slavery  itself  must  pass  away, 
And  be  a  tale  of  yesterday. 

But  now  I  urge  a  dearer  claim, 
And  urge  it  by  a  mightier  name  : 
Hope  of  the  world  !  on  thee  I  call, 
By  the  great  Father  of  us  all, 
By  the  Redeemer  of  our  race, 
And  by  the  Spirit  of  all  grace, 
Turn  not,  Britannia,  from  my  plea; 
— So  help  thee  God  as  thou  help'st  me  ! 
Mine  outcast  children  come  to  light 
From  darkness,  and  go  down  in  night ; 
— A  night  of  more  mysterious  gloom 
Than  that  which  wrapt  them  in  the  womb : 
Oh  !  that  the  womb  had  been  the  grave 
Of  every  being  born  a  slave  ! 
Oh  !  that  the  grave  itself  might  close 
The  slave's  unutterable  woes  ! 
But  what  beyond  that  gulf  may  be, 
What  portion  in  eternity, 
For  those  who  live  to  curse  their  breath, 
And  die  without  a  hope  in  death, 
I  know  not,  and  I  dare  not  think ; 
Yet,  while  I  shudder  o'er  the  brink 
Of  that  unfathomable  deep, 
Where  wrath  lies  chain'd  and  judgments  sleep, 
To  thee,  thou  paradise  of  isles  ! 
Where  mercy  in  full  glory  smiles  ; 
Eden  of  lands  !  o'er  all  the  rest 
By  blessing  others  doubly  blest, 
— To  thee  I  lift  my  weeping  eye  ; 
Send  me  the  Gospel  or  I  die  ; 
The  word  of  Christ's  salvation  give, 
That  I  may  hear  his  voice  and  live. 


412  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


SPEED  THE  PROW. 

Not  the  ship  that  swiftest  saileth, 

But  which  longest  holds  her  way- 
Onward,  onward,  never  faileth, 

Storm  and  calm,  to  win  the  day ; 
Earliest  she  the  haven  gains, 
Which  the  hardest  stress  sustains. 

O'er  life's  ocean,  wide  and  pathless, 
Thus  would  I  with  patience  steer ; 

No  vain  hope  of  journeying  scathless, 
No  proud  boast  to  face  down  fear ; 

Dark  or  bright  his  Providence, 

Trust  in  God  be  my  defence. 

Time  there  was, — 'tis  so  no  longer, — 

When  I  crowded  every  sail, 
Battled  with  the  waves,  and  stronger 

Grew,  as  stronger  grew  the  gale  ; 
But  my  strength  sunk  with  the  wind, 
And  the  sea  lay  dead  behind. 

There  my  bark  had  founder' d  surely, 

But  a  Power  invisible 
Breathed  upon  me  ; — then  securely, 

Borne  along  the  gradual  swell, 
Helm,  and  shrouds,  and  heart  renew'd, 
I  my  humbler  course  pursued. 

Now,  though  evening  shadows  blacken, 
And  no  star  comes  through  the  gloom, 

On  I  move,  nor  will  I  slacken 

Sail,  though  verging  towards  the  tomb  ; 

Bright  beyond, — on  heaven's  high  strand, 

Lo,  the  lighthouse  ! — land,  land,  land! 


THE    CHOLERA    MOUNT.  413 

Cloud  and  sunshine,  wind  and  weather, 

Sense  and  sight  are  fleeing  fast ; 
Time  and  tide  must  fail  together, 

Life  and  death  will  soon  be  past ; 
But  where  day's  last  spark  declines, 
Glory  everlasting  shines. 

1834. 


THE  CHOLERA  MOUNT. 

lines  on  the  btjrying-place  for  patients  who  died  of  cholera 
morbus;  a  pleasant  eminence  in  Sheffield  park. 

Written  during  the  prevalence  of  the  disease  in  1832,  and  while  great  terror  of 
infection  from  it  was  experienced  throughout  the  kingdom,  sanctioned  by  legis- 
lative authority,  requiring  the  separate  interment  of  its  unfortunate  victims. 

In  death  divided  from  their  dearest  kin, 
This  is  "a  field  to  bury  strangers  in :" 
Fragments,  from  families  untimely  reft, 
Like  spoils  in  flight,  or  limbs  in  battle  reft, 
Lie  here  ; — a  sad  community,  whose  bones 
Might  feel,  methinks,  a  pang  to  quicken  stones  ; 
While  from  beneath  my  feet  they  seem  to  cry, 
"  Oh  !  is  it  naught  to  you,  ye  passers  by  ! 
When  from  its  earthly  house  the  spirit  fled, 
Our  dust  might  not  be  '  free  among  the  dead  V 
Ah  !  why  were  we  to  this  Siberia  sent, 
Doom'd  in  the  grave  itself  to  banishment  ?" 

Shuddering  humanity  asks,  "  Who  are  these  ? 
And  what  their  crime  ?" — They  fell  by  one  disease! 
By  the  blue  pest,  whose  gripe  no  art  can  shun, 
No  force  unwrench,  out-singled  one  by  one  ; 
When,  like  a  monstrous  birth,  the  womb  of  fate 
Bore  a  new  death  of  unrecorded  date, 
And  doubtful  name. — Far  east  the  fiend  begun 
Its  course  ;  thence  round  the  world  pursued  the  sun, 


414  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  ghosts  of  millions  following  at  its  back, 
Whose  desecrated  graves  betray'd  their  track. 
On  Albion's  shores  unseen  the  invader  stept ; 
Secret  and  swift  through  field  and  city  swept ; 
At  noon,  at  midnight,  seized  the  weak,  the  strong, 
Asleep,  awake,  alone,  amid  the  throng ; 
Kill'd  like  a  murderer ;  fix'd  its  icy  hold, 
And  wrung  out  life  with  agony  of  cold ; 
Nor  stay'd  its  vengeance  where  it  crush'd  the  prey, 
But  set  a  mark,  like  Cain's,  upon  their  clay, 
And  this  tremendous  seal  impressed  on  all, 
"Bury  me  out  of  sight  and  out  of  call." 

Wherefore  no  filial  foot  this  turf  may  tread, 
No  kneeling  mother  kiss  her  baby's  bed ; 
No  maiden  unespoused,  with  widow'd  sighs, 
Seek  her  soul's  treasure  where  her  true  love  lies : 
—All  stand  aloof,  and  eye  this  mount  from  far, 
As  panic-stricken  crowds  some  baleful  star, 
Strange  to  the  heavens,  that,  with  bewilder'd  light, 
Like  a  lost  spirit  wanders  through  the  night. 

Yet  many  a  mourner  weeps  her  fallen  state, 
In  many  a  home  by  these  left  desolate, 
Once  warm  with  love,  and  radiant  with  the  smiles 
Of  woman,  watching  infants  at  their  wiles, 
Whose  eye  of  thought,  when  now  they  throng  her  knees, 
Pictures  far  other  scene  than  that  she  sees, 
For  one  is  wanting, — one,  for  whose  dear  sake, 
Her  heart  for  very  tenderness  would  ache, 
As  now  with  anguish, — doubled  when  she  spies 
In  this  his  lineaments,  in  that  his  eyes, 
In  each  his  image  with  her  own  commix'd, 
And  there,  at  least,  through  life  their  union  fix'd. 

Humanity  again  asks,  "  Who  are  these  ? 
And  what  their  crime  ?" — They  fell  by  one  disease  ; 
Not  by  the  Proteus-maladies  that  strike 
Man  into  nothingness,  not  twice  alike  ; 
But  when  they  knock' d  for  entrance  at  the  tomb, 
Their  fathers'  bones  refused  to  make  them  room; 


THE    CHOLERA    MOUNT.  415 

Recoiling  Nature  from  their  presence  fled, 

As  though  a  thunderbolt  had  smote  them  dead ; 

Their  cries  pursued  her  with  the  thrilling  plea, 

"Give  us  a  little  earth  for  charity  !" 

She  linger'd,  listen'd,  all  her  bosom  yearn'd, 

Through  every  vein  the  mother's  pulse  retum'd ; 

Then,  as  she  halted  on  this  hill,  she  threw 

Her  mantle  wide,  and  loose  her  tresses  flew  : 

"Live  !"  to  the  slain,  she  cried,  "My  children,  live  ! 

This  for  an  heritage  to  you  I  give  ; 

Had  death  consumed  you  by  the  common  lot, 

You  with  the  multitude  had  been  forgot, 

Now  through  an  age  of  ages  shall  ye  not." 

Thus  Nature  spake,  and  as  her  echo,  I 
Take  up  her  parable,  and  prophesy : 
— Here,  as  from  spring  to  spring  the  swallows  pass, 
Perennial  daisies  shall  adorn  the  grass ; 
Here  the  shrill  sky-lark  build  her  annual  nest, 
And  sing  in  heaven  while  you  serenely  rest : 
On  trembling  dew-drops  morn's  first  glance  shall  shine, 
Eve's  latest  beams  on  this  fair  bank  decline, 
And  oft  the  rainbow  steal  through  light  and  gloom, 
To  throw  its  sudden  arch  across  your  tomb ; 
On  you  the  moon  her  sweetest  influence  shower, 
And  every  planet  bless  you  in  its  hour. 

With  statelier  honours  still,  in  time's  slow  round, 
Shall  this  sepulchral  eminence  be  crown'd, 
Where  generations  long  to  come  shall  hail 
The  growth  of  centuries  waving  in  the  gale, 
A  forest  landmark  on  the  mountain's  head, 
Standing  betwixt  the  living  and  the  dead ; 
Nor  while  your  language  lasts,  shall  traveller  cease 
To  say,  at  sight  of  your  memorial,  "  Peace!" 
Your  voice  of  silence  answering  from  the  sod, 
;'  Whoe'er  thou  art,  prepare  to  meet  thy  God.'"3 

1S32. 


416  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


TO  MARY. 

Mary  ! — it  is  a  lovely  name, 

Thrice  honour' d  in  the  rolls  of  fame, 

Not  for  the  blazonry  of  birth, 

Nor  honours  springing  from  the  earth, 

But  what  evangelists  have  told 

Of  three,  who  bare  that  name  of  old  : 

— Mary,  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 

Mary,  who  sat  to  hear  his  word, 

And  Mary  Magdalen,  to  whom 

Christ  came,  while  weeping  o'er  his  tomb  ; 

These  to  that  humble  name  supply 

A  glory  which,  can  never  die. 

Mary  !  my  prayer  for  you  shall  be, 
— May  you  resemble  all  the  three 
In  faith,  and  hope,  and  charity. 


SHORT-HAND. 

STANZAS    ADDRESSED    TO    E.    P. 

These  lines  and  dots  are  locks  and  keys, 
In  narrow  space  to  treasure  thought, 

Whose  precious  hoards,  whene'er  you  please, 
Are  thus  to  light  from  darkness  brought. 

On  the  small  tablet  of  your  heart, 

By  heaven's  own  finger  be  engraved, 

Within,  without,  through  every  part, 

The  "  words  whereby  you  must  be  saved." 

There  the  bright  pages  of  God's  book, 

In  secret  characters  may  lie, 
Where  you  alone  have  power  to  look, 

While  hid  from  man  and  angel's  eye. 


TO  GEORGE  BENNET,  ESQ. 


Could  nature's  mysteries  all  be  found, 
Unbosom'd,  where  the  billows  roll, 

In  flowers  embroider'd  o'er  the  ground, 
By  stars  emblazon'd  round  the  pole  ; — 

Less  were  the  sum  of  truth  rcveal'd, 

Through  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea  express'd, 

Than  would  be  written,  sign'd,  and  seal'd, 
Once  and  for  ever,  in  your  breast. 

1828. 


TO    MY    FRIEND, 

GEORGE   BENNET,   ESQ., 

OF   SHEFFIELD, 

On  his  intended  visit  to  Tahiti,  and  other  Islands   of  the  South  Sea,  where 
Christianity  had  been  recently  established. 

Go,  take  the  wings  of  morn, 

And  fly  beyond  the  utmost  sea ; 
Thou  shalt  not  feel  thyself  forlorn, 

Thy  God  is  still  with  thee ; 
And  where  his  Spirit  bids  thee  dwell, 
There,  and  there  only,  thou  art  well. 

Forsake  thy  father-land, 

Kindred,  and  friends,  and  pleasant  home  ; 
O'er  many  a  rude,  barbarian  strand, 

In  exile  though  thou  roam, 
Walk  there  with  God,  and  thou  shalt  find 
Double  for  all  thy  faith  resign' d. 

LaunW  boldly  on  the  surge, 

And  in  a  light  and  fragile  bark", 
Thy  path  through  flood  and  tempest  urge, 

Like  Noah  in  the  ark, 


418  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then  tread  like  him  a  new  world's  shore, 
Thine  altar  build,  and  God  adore. 

Leave  our  Jerusalem, 

Jehovah's  temple  and  his  rest ; 

Go  where  no  Sabbath  rose  on  them, 
Whom  pagan  gloom  oppress'd, 

Till  bright,  though  late,  around  their  isles, 

The  Gospel-dawn  awoke  in  smiles. 

Amidst  that  dawn,  from  far, 

Be  thine  expected  presence  shown  ; 

Rise  on  them  like  the  morning  star 
In  glory  not  thine  own, 

And  tell  them,  while  they  hail  the  sight, 

Who  turn'd  thy  darkness  into  light. 

Point  where  his  hovering  rays 
Already  gild  their  ocean's  brim, 

Erelong  o'er  heaven  and  earth  to  blaze ; 
Direct  all  eyes  to  Him, 

—The  sun  of  righteousness,  who  brings 

Mercy  and  healing  on  his  wings. 

Nor  thou  disdain  to  teach 

To  savage  hordes  celestial  truth, 

To  infant-tongues  thy  mother's  speech, 
Ennobling  arts  to  youth, 

Till  warriors  fling  their  arms  aside, 

O'er  bloodless  fields  the  plough  to  guide. 

Train  them,  by  patient  toil, 

To  rule  the  waves,  subdue  the  ground, 
Enrich  themselves  with  nature's  spoil, 

With  harvest-trophies  crown'd, 
Tin  co^al-reefs,  midst  desert  seas,    ^ 
Become  the  new  Hesperides. 

Thus  then  in  peace  depart, 

And  angels  guide  thy  footsteps  : — No  ! 


TO    GEORGE    BENNET,    ESQ.  419 

There  is  a  feeling  in  the  heart, 

That  will  not  let  thee  go : 
Yet  go, — thy  spirit  stays  with  me  ; 
Yet  go, — my  spirit  goes  with  thee. 

Though  the  broad  world,  between 

Our  feet,  conglobe  its  solid  mass  ; 
Though  lands  and  oceans  intervene, 

Which  I  must  never  pass  ; 
Though  day  and  night  to  thee  be  changed, 
Seasons  reversed,  and  climes  estranged  ; 

Yet  one  in  soul, — and  one 

In  faith,  and  hope,  and  purpose  yet, 

God's  witness  in  the  heavens,  yon  sun, 
Forbid  thee  to  forget 

Those  from  whose  eyes  his  orb  retires, 

When  thine  his  morning  beauty  fires  ! 

When  tropic  gloom  returns, 

Mark  what  new  stars  their  vigils  keep, 

How  glares  the  wolf, — the  phoenix  burns, 
And  on  a  stormless  deep, 

The  ship  of  heaven, — the  patriarch's  dove, 

The  emblem  of  redeeming  love.* 

While  these  enchant  thine  eye, 

Oh  !  think  how  often  we  have  walk'd, 

Gazed  on  the  glories  of  our  sky, 
Of  higher  glories  talk'd, 

Till  our  hearts  caught  a  kindling  ray, 

And  burn'd  within  us  by  the  way. 

Those  hours,  those  walks  are  past, 

We  part ; — and  ne'er  again  may  meet : 

Why  are  the  joys  that  will  not  last 
So  perishingly  sweet  ? 

Farewell, — we  surely  meet  ao-ain 

In  life  or  death  ; — farewell  till  then. 

Sheffield,  March  10.  1821. 
*  The  cross,  the  dove,  the  pha-nix.  tbe  wolf,  are  southern  constellations. 


420  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

ONE  WARNING  MORE. 

WRITTEN    FOR   DISTRIBUTION    ON    A    RACE    COURSE,    1824. 

One  fervent,  faithful  warning  more 
To  him  who  heeded  none  before. 

The  fly  around  the  candle  wheels, 

Enjoys  the  sport,  and  gaily  sings, 
Till  nearer,  nearer  borne,  he  feels 

The  flame  like  lightning  singe  his  wings ; 
Then  weltering  in  the  gulf  below  he  lies, 
And  limb  by  limb,  scorch'd  miserably,  dies. 

From  bough  to  bough  the  wild  bird  hops, 
Where  late  he  caroll'd  blithe  and  free, 

But  downward,  downward,  now  he  drops, 
Faint,  fluttering,  helpless  from  the  tree, 

Where,  stretch'd  below,  with  eye  of  deadly  ray, 

The  eager  rattle-snake  expects  his  prey. 

Thou,  child  of  pleasure,  art  the  fly, 
Drawn  by  the  taper's  dazzling  glare ; 

Thou  art  the  bird  that  meets  an  eye, 
Alluring  to  the  serpent's  snare  ; 

Oh  !  stay  : — is  reason  lost  ? — is  conscience  dumb  ? 

Be  wise,  be  warn'd,  escape  the  wrath  to  come. 

Not  swifter  o'er  the  level  course, 

The  racer  glances  to  the  goal, 
Than  thou,  with  blind  and  headlong  force 

Art  running  on — to  lose  thy  soul ; 
Then,  though  the  world  were  won,  how  dear  the  cost ! 
Can  the  whole  world  avail  a  spirit  lost  ? 

Death,  on  his  pale  horse,  following  fast, 
Gains  on  thy  speed, — with  hell  behind ; 

Fool !  all  thy  yesterdays  are  past, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  never  find  ; 

To-day  is  hastening  to  eternity  ; 

"  This  night  thy  soul  shall  be  required  of  thee." 


A    RIDDLE.  421 


A  RIDDLE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  E.  R..,  1820. 

I  know  not  who  these  lines  may  see  ; 
I  know  not  what  these  lines  will  be  ; 
But,  since  a  word  in  season  sent, 
As  from  a  bow  at  hazard  bent, 
May  reach  a  roving  eye,  or  dart 
Conviction  to  a  careless  heart, 
Oh  !  that  an  arrow  I  could  find 
In  the  small  quiver  of  my  mind, 
Which,  with  unerring  aim,  should  strike 
Each,  who  encounters  it,  alike  ! 

Reader  !  attention  ! — I  will  spring 
A  wondrous  thought ;  'tis  on  the  wing  ; 
Guard  well  your  heart,  you  guard  in  vain, 
The  wound  is  made,  yet  gives  no  pain  ; 
Surprise  may  make  your  cheek  to  glow, 
But,  courage  !  none  but  you  can  know  ; 
The  thought,  awaken'd  by  my  spell, 
Is  more  than  I  myself  can  tell. 
How  ? — search  the  chamber  of  your  breast, 
And  think  of  that  which  you  love  best ! 
I've  raised  the  spirit,  but  cannot  lay  it, 
Your  secret  found,  but  can't  betray  it. 
So,  ask  yourself, — "  What  will  this  be, 
A  thousand  ages  hence,  to  me  ?" 
And  if  it  will  not  stand  the  fire, 
In  which  all  nature  shall  expire, 
Think, — ere  these  rhymes  aside  are  cast, — 
As  though  the  thought  might  be  your  last, 
"  Where  shall  I  find  below,  above, 
An  object  worthy  of  my  love  ?" 

Now  hearken,  and  forget  it  never, — 
Love  that  which  you  may  love  for  ever. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  FATHERS. 

The  Jews  occasionally  hold  a  "  Solemn  Assembly"  in  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat, 
the  ancient  burial-place  of  Jerusalem.  They  are  obliged  to  pay  a  heavy  tax  for 
the  privilege  of  thus  mourning,  in  stillness,  at  the  sepulchres  of  their  ancestors. 

Part  I. 

In  Babylon  they  sat  and  wept, 

Down  by  the  river's  willowy  side ; 
And  when  the  breeze  their  harp-strings  swept, 

The  strings  of  breaking  hearts  replied  : 

— A  deeper  sorrow  now  they  hide ; 
No  Cyrus  comes  to  set  them  free 
From  ages  of  captivity. 

All  lands  are  Babylon s  to  them, 

Exiles  and  fugitives  they  roam ; 
What  is  their  own  Jerusalem  ? 

— The  place  where  they  are  least  at  home  ! 

Yet  hither  from  all  climes  they  come  ; 
And  pay  their  gold,  for  leave  to  shed 
Tears  o'er  the  generations  fled. 

Around,  the  eternal  mountains  stand, 
With  Hinnom's  darkling  vale  between ; 

Old  Jordan  wanders  through  the  land, 
Blue  Carmel's  sea-ward  crest  is  seen, 
And  Lebanon  yet  sternly  green 

Throws,  when  the.  evening  sun  declines, 

Its  cedar-shades,  in  lengthening  lines. 

But,  ah  !  for  ever  vanish'd  hence, 
The  temple  of  the  living  God, 

Once  Zion's  glory  and  defence  ! 

— Now  mourn  beneath  the  oppressor's  rod, 
The  fields  which  faithful  Abraham  trod, 

Where  Isaac  walk'd  by  twilight  gleam, 

And  heaven  came  down  on  Jacob's  dream. 


THE    TOMBS    OF    THE    FATHERS.  423 

For  ever  mingled  with  the  soil, 

Those  armies  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

That  conquer'd  Canaan,  shared  the  spoil, 

Quell'd  Moab's  pride,  slorm'd  Midian's  posts, 
Spread  paleness  through  Philistia's  coasts, 

And  taught  the  foes,  whose  idols  fell, 

"  There  is  a  God  in  Israel." 

Now,  David's  tabernacle  gone, 

What  mighty  builder  shall  restore  ? 
The  golden  throne  of  Solomon, 

And  ivory  palace  are  no  more  ; 

The  Psalmist's  song,  the  Preacher's  lore, 
Of  all  they  wrought,  alone  remain 
Unperish'd  trophies  of  their  reign. 

Holy  and  beautiful  of  old, 

Was  Zion  'midst  her  princely  bowers  ; 
Besiegers  trembled  to  behold 

Bulwarks  that  set  at  naught  their  powers  ; 

— Swept  from  the  earth  are  all  her  towers  ; 
Nor  is  there — so  was  she  bereft — 
One  stone  upon  another  left. 

The  very  site  whereon  she  stood, 

In  vain  the  eye,  the  foot  would  trace ; 
Vengeance,  for  saints'  and  martyrs'  blood, 

Her  walls  did  utterly  deface  ; 

Dungeons  and  dens  usurp  their  place  ; 
The  cross  and  crescent  shine  afar, 
But  where  is  Jacob's  natal  star  ? 

Part  II. 

Still  inexterminable,  still 

Devoted  to  their  mother-land, 
Her  offspring  haunt  the  temple-hill, 

Amidst  her  desecration  stand, 

And  bite  the  lip,  and  clench  the  hand ; 


424  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

— To-day  in  that  lone  vale  they  weep, 
Where  patriarchs,  kings,  and  prophets  sleep. 

Ha !  what  a  spectacle  of  wo  ! 

In  groups  they  settle  on  the  ground ; 
Men,  women,  children  gathering  slow, 

Sink  down  in  reverie  profound  ; 

There  is  no  voice,  no  speech,  no  sound, 
But  through  the  shuddering  frame  is  thrown 
The  heart's  unutterable  groan. 

Entranced  they  sit,  nor  seem  to  breathe, 
Themselves  like  spectres  from  the  dead ; 

Where  shrined  in  rocks  above,  beneath, 
With  clods  along  the  valley  spread, 
Their  ancestors,  each  on  his  bed, 

Repose,  till  at  the  judgment-day, 

Death  and  the  grave  give  up  their  prey. 

Before  their  eyes,  as  in  a  glass, 

— Their  eyes  that  gaze  on  vacancy — 

Pageants  of  ancient  grandeur  pass, 
But,  "  Ichabod"  on  all  they  see 
Brands  Israel's  foul  apostasy  ; 

— Then  last  and  worst,  and  crowning  all 

Their  crimes  and  sufferings — Salem's  fall. 

Nor  breeze,  nor  bird,  nor  palm-tree  stirs, 
Kedron's  unwater'd  brook  is  dumb ; 

But  through  the  glen  of  sepulchres 
Is  heard  the  city's  fervid  hum, 
Voices  of  dogs  and  children  come  : 

Till  loud  and  long  the  medzin's*  cry, 

From  Omar's  mosque,  peals  round  the  sky. 

Blight  through  their  veins  those  accents  send ; 
In  agony  of  mute  despair, 


*  More  properly  "  muedhin's,"  the  person  whose  business  it  is  to  call  the  Mo- 
hammedans to  prayer ;  no  bells  being  used  by  them  for  that  purpose. 


THE    TOMBS    OF    THE    FATHERS.  425 

Their  garments,  as  by  stealth,  they  rend ; 

Unconsciously  they  pluck  their  hair ; 

— This  is  the  Moslem's  hour  of  prayer ! 
'Twas  Judah's  once, — but  fane  and  priest, 
Altar  and  sacrifice,  have  ceased. 

And  by  the  Gentiles,  in  their  pride, 

Jerusalem  is  trodden  down  : 
— "  How  long  ? — for  ever  wilt  thou  hide 

Thy  face,  O  Lord  ; — for  ever  frown  ? 

Israel  was  once  thy  glorious  crown, 
In  sight  of  all  the  nations  worn  ; 
Now  from  thy  brow  in  anger  torn. 

"  Zion,  forsaken  and  forgot, 

Hath  felt  thy  stroke,  and  owns  it  just : 

O  God,  our  God  !  reject  us  not, 
Her  sons  take  pleasure  in  her  dust : 
How  is  the  fine  gold  dimm'd  with  rust ! 

The  city  throned  in  gorgeous  state, 

How  doth  she  now  sit  desolate  ! 

"  Where  is  thine  oath  to  David  sworn  ? 

We  by  the  winds  like  chaff  are  driven: 
Yet  unto  us  a  child  is  born, 

Yet  unto  us  a  Son  is  given ; 

His  throne  is  as  the  days  of  Heaven  : 
When  shall  He  come  to  our  release, 
The  mighty  God,  the  Prince  of  Peace  ?" 

Part  III. 

Thus  blind  with  unbelief  they  cry, 
But  hope  revisits  not  their  glooms  ; 

Seal'd  are  the  words  of  prophecy, 
SeaPd  as  the  secrets  of  yon  tombs, 
Where  all  is  dark, — though  nature  blooms, 

Birds  sing,  streams  murmur,  heaven  above, 

And  earth  around,  are  life,  light,  love. 


426  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  sun  goes  down  ; — the  mourning  crowds, 
Re-quicken'd,  as  from  slumber  start ; 

They  met  in  silence  here  like  clouds, 
Like  clouds  in  silence  they  depart : 
Still  clings  the  thought  to  every  heart, 

Still  from  their  lips  escapes  in  sighs, 

— "  By  whom  shall  Jacob  yet  arise  ?" 

By  whom  shall  Jacob  yet  arise  ? 

— Even  by  the  Power  that  Avakes  the  dead 

He  whom  your  fathers  did  despise, 
He  who  for  you  on  Calvary  bled, 
On  Zion  shall  his  ensign  spread  ; 

— Captives !  by  all  the  world  enslaved, 

Know  your  Redeemer,  and  be  saved  '„ 


THE  SUN-FLOWER. 


Eagle  of  flowers  !  I  see  thee  stand, 

And  on  the  sun's  noon-glory  gaze  ; 
With  eye  like  his,  thy  lids  expand, 

And  fringe  their  disk  with  golden  rays  : 
Though  fix'd  on  earth,  in  darkness  rooted  there, 
Light  is  thine  element,  thy  dwelling  air, 
Thy  prospect  heaven". 

So  would  mine  eagle-soul  descry, 

Beyond  the  path  where  planets  run, 
The  light  of  immortality, 

The  splendour  of  creation's  sun  ; 
Though  sprung  from  earth,  and  hastening  to  the  tomb, 
In  hope  a  flower  of  paradise  to  bloom, 
I  look  to  heaven. 

1834. 


FOR    J.    S.  427 


FOR  J.  S., 

A    PREAMBLE    TO    HER   ALBUM. 
"  Ut  pictura  poeste."— Hor.  De  Arte  Poctica,  v.  361. 

Two  lovely  sisters  here  unite 

To  blend  improvement  with  delight, — 

Painting  and  Poetry  engage 

To  deck  by  turns  the  varied  page. 

Here  every  glowing  picture  be 
The  quintessence  of  poesy, 
With  skill  so  exquisitely  wrought 
As  if  the  colours  were  pure  thought, 
— Thought,  from  the  bosom's  inmost  cell, 
By  magic  tints  made  visible, 
That,  while  the  eye  admires,  the  mind, 
As  in  a  glass,  itself  ma}'  find. 

And  may  the  Poet's  verse,  alike, 
With  all  the  power  of  painting  strike, 
So  freely,  so  divinely  trace 
In  every  line,  "the  line  of  grace," 
And  beautify  with  such  sweet  art 
The  image-chamber  of  the  heart, 
That  Fancy  here  may  gaze  her  fill, 
Forming  fresh  scenes  and  shapes  at  will, 
Where  silent  woods  alone  appear, 
Or,  borrowing  voice,  but  touch  the  ear. 

Yet  humble  Prose  with  these  shall  stand, 
Friends,  kindred,  comrades,  hand  in  hand, 
All  in  this  fair  enclosure  meet, 
The  lady  of  the  book  to  greet, 
And,  with  the  pen  or  pencil,  make 
The  leaves  love-tokens  for  her  sake. 


428  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


TO  CYNTHIA: 

A  young  Lady,  unknown  to  the  Author,  who,  by  letter,  requested  "  a  stanza,"  or 
ua  few  lines  in  his  handwriting." 

Spirits  in  heaven  can  interchange 
Thoughts  without  voice  or  sound ; 
Spirits  on  earth  at  will  can  range, 
Wherever  man  is  found ; 
Their  thoughts  (as  silent  and  as  fleet 
As  summer  lightnings  in  the  west, 
When  evening  sinks  to  glorious  rest,) 
In  written  symbols  meet. 

The  motion  of  a  feather  darts 
The  secrets  of  sequester'd  hearts 
To  kindred  hearts  afar  ; 
As,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
Quick  rays  of  intermingling  light 
Sparkle  from  star  to  star. 

A  spirit  to  a  spirit  speaks, 
Where  these  few  letters  stand ; 
Strangers  alike, — the  younger  seeks 
A  token  from  the  hand, 
That  traced  an  unpretending  song, 
Whose  numbers  won  her  gentle  soul, 
While,  like  a  mountain-rill,  they  stole 
In  trembling  harmony  along  : — 
What  shall  the  poet's  spirit  send 
To  his  unseen,  unseeing  friend  ? 
— A  wish  as  pure  as  e'er  had  birth 
In  thought  or  language  of  this  earth. 

Cynthia  is  young, — may  she  be  old ; 
And  fair  no  doubt, — may  she  grow  wrinkled ; 
Her  locks,  in  verse  at  least,  are  gold, 
May  they  turn  silver,  thinly  sprinkled ; 
The  rose  her  cheek,  the  fire  her  eye, 
Youth,  health,  and  strength  successive  fly, 
And  in  the  end, — may  Cynthia  die  ! 


ON    A    WATCH-POCKET.  429 

"  Unkind  !  inhuman  !" — Stay  your  tears  ; 
I  only  wish  you  length  of  years ; 
And  wish  them  still,  with  all  their  woes, 
And  all  their  blessings,  till  the  close ; 
For  hope  and  fear,  with  anxious  strife, 
Are  wrestlers  in  the  ring  of  life, 
And  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow 
Are  but  alternate  joy  and  sorrow. 

Now  mark  the  sequel : — may  your  mind, 
In  wisdom's  paths,  true  pleasure  find, 
Grow  strong  in  virtue,  rich  in  truth, 
And  year  by  year  renew  its  youth  ; 
Till,  in  the  last  triumphant  hour, 
The  spirit  shall  the  Jlesh  o'erpower, 
This  from  its  sufferings  gain  release, 
And  that  take  wing,  and  part  in  peace. 


ON  A  WATCH-POCKET 

WORKED    BY   A.    L. 

Within  this  curious  case, 
Time's  sentinel  I  place, 
Who,  while  calm,  unconscious  slumber 
Shuts  creation  from  mine  eyes, 
Through  the  silent  gloom  shall  number 
Every  moment  as  it  flies, 
And  record,  at  dawn  of  day, 
Thrice  ten  thousand  past  away. 
On  each  of  these,  my  breath 
May  pause  'twixt  life  and  death, 
By  a  subtler  line  depending 
Than  the  ray  of  twinkling  light, 
Which  the  smallest  star  is  sending, 
Every  instant,  through  the  night ; 


430  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Yea,  on  films  more  finely  spun, 
All  things  hang,  beneath  the  sun. 

Rapt  through  a  wildering  dream, 
Awake  in  sleep  I  seem  ; 
Sorrow  wrings  my  soul  with  anguish, 
Joy  expands  my  throbbing  breast ; 
Now,  o'erwhelm'd  with  care,  I  languish, 
Now  serene  and  tranquil  rest ; 
— Morning  comes,  and  all  between 
Is  as  though  it  ne'er  had  been. 

But  Time  has  daylight  hours, 
And  man,  immortal  powers  ; 
Waking  joy  and  sleepless  sorrow, 
Worldly  care  and  heavenly  peace ; 
Life,  renew'd  with  every  morrow, 
Not  in  death  itself  shall  cease  ; 
Man,  through  all  eternity, 
What  he  here  hath  been  shall  be. 

May  she,  whose  skilful  hand 
This  fairy  net-work  plann'd, 
Still,  in  innocent  employment, 
Far  from  vanity  and  vice, 
Seek  the  Pearl  of  pure  enjoyment, 
On  her  path  to  Paradise  ; 
Time,  for  earth  or  heaven,  employ'd, 
(Both  have  claims)  is  time  enjoy'd. 

Each  day  to  her,  in  flight, 
Bequeath  a  gem  at  night ; 
Some  sweet  hope,  some  hallow'd  pleasure, 
From  remembrance  ne'er  to  part : 
Hourly  blessings  swell  the  treasure 
Hidden  in  her  grateful  heart, 
And  may  every  moment  past 
Leave  a  ray  to  gild  her  last. 

1821. 


431 


AN  INFANT'S  ALBUM. 

A.  H.  R.  to  her  Friends  and  Contributors,  written  to  accompany  her  Portrait,  at 

the  beginning  of  the  Book. 

Now  look  upon  my  face,  and  say, 
If  you  can  turn  your  eyes  away. 
Nor  grant  the  little  boon  I  ask, 
As  if  it  were  some  mighty  task. 

What  is  it  ? — Only  take  your  pen, 
Look  wise,  and  think  a  moment, — then 
Write  any  thins:,  to  which,  for  shame, 
You  need  not  fear  to  put  your  name  ; 
Or,  with  the  pencil's  curious  skill, 
Draw  flowers,  birds,  figures, — what  you  will ; 
I,  like  my  elders  and  my  betters, 
Love  pictures  quite  as  well  as  letters. 
Thus,  page  by  page,  my  album  store, 
Till  it  an  album  be  no  more, 
But,  richly  fill'd,  from  end  to  end, 
On  every  leaf  present  a  Friend. 

Now  look  upon  my  face,  and  see 
Yourself,  your  very  self,  in  me ; 
Were  you  not  once  as  mild  and  meek, 
With  lip  demure,  and  plump  round  cheek  ? 
Did  you  not  sometimes,  too,  look  sly 
Out  of  the  corner  of  your  eye, 
As  if  you  held  an  infant's  jest, 
Like  a  bird  fluttering,  to  your  breast, 
Which  wanted  but  an  inch  of  wing, 
Up  through  the  air  to  soar  and  sing  ? 
So  I  can  feign  to  hide  a  joke, 
And  be  as  arch  as  graver  folk. 

Well,  time  runs  on,  and  I,  you  know, 
As  tall  and  stout  as  you  may  grow, 


432  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Nay,  more  unlike  my  portrait  here, 
Than  you  just  now  like  me  appear. 
Ah  !  then,  if  I  must  change  so  fast, 
What  will  become  of  me  at  last  ? 
— A  poor,  old  woman  of  fourscore  ! 
That's  a  long  way  to  look  before, 
So  I  would  learn  of  you,  meanwhile, 
How  best  the  journey  to  beguile. 
Look  in  my  face  again,  you'll  find 
The  album  of  an  infant's  mind, 
Unsoil'd  by  care,  unworn  by  grief, 
Like  new-fall'n  snow  each  maiden-leaf, 
On  which,  if  not  in  black  and  white, 
In  lines  eternal,  you  may  write 
All  that  is  lovely,  pure,  and  good, 
To  be  possess'd  or  understood. 

Then,  in  this  volume,  as  it  lies, 
Trace  words  and  pictures  to  my  eyes, 
Which,  thence,  their  mystic  way  may  find, 
Into  that  album  of  my  mind, 
And  there  impress  each  opening  page, 
With  thoughts  for  childhood,  youth,  and  age  ; 
Breathe  a  sweet  spirit  through  the  whole, 
That,  like  a  soul  within  my  soul, 
Shall,  by  the  early  impulse  given, 
Guide  me  on  earth,  and  bring  to  heaven. 
Let  every  leaf  unfold  a  text, 
Either  for  this  world  or  the  next ; 
To  learn  of  each,  I'm  nothing  loth, 
They  tell  me  I  was  born  for  both. 
Let  mirth  with  innocence  combine, 
And  human  knowledge  aid  divine. 

Thus  form'd  by  it,  and  it  by  you, 
This  Book  shall  render  each  their  due  ; 
For  whoso  peeps  therein  may  start, 
As  though  he  look'd  into  my  heart ; 
And  if  he  did,  you  must  beware, 
That  he  would  see  your  image  there ; 


TO    MARGARET. 


Then  grant  the  boon  with  such  a  grace, 
That  you  may  have  a  good,  warm  place  : 
— Walk  in,  walk  in  ;  my  heart,  though  small, 
Is  large  enough  to  hold  you  all. 

1828. 


TO  MARGARET ; 


A  little  girl,  who  begged  to  have  some  verses  from  the  author,  at  Scarborough, 
in  1814. 

Margaret  !  we  never  met  before, 
And,  Margaret !  we  may  meet  no  more  ; 
What  shall  I  say  at  parting  ? 
Scarce  half  a  moon  has  run  her  race, 
Since  first  I  saw  your  fairy-face, 
Around  this  gay  and  giddy  place, 
Sweet  smiles  and  blushes  darting  ; 
Yet  from  my  soul,  I  frankly  tell, 
I  cannot  help  but  wish  you  well. 

I  dare  not  wish  you  stores  of  wealth, 
A  troop  of  friends,  unfailing  health, 
And  freedom  from  affliction  ; 
I  dare  not  wish  you  beauty's  prize, 
Carnation  lips,  and  bright  blue  eyes, 
These  look  through  tears,  those  breathe  in  sighs  ; — 
Hear  then  my  benediction  ; 
Of  these  good  gifts  be  you  possest 
Just  in  the  measure  God  sees  best. 

But,  little  Margaret,  may  you  be 
All  that  His  eye  delights  to  see, 
All  that  He  loves  and  blesses ; 
The  Lord  in  darkness  be  your  light, 
Your  help  in  need,  your  shield  in  fight, 
Your  comfort  in  distresses  ; 
Your  hope  through  every  future  breath, 
And  your  eternal  joy  in  death  ! 

Tu.  37 


434  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  BLANK  LEAF. 

Fair  page  !  the  e}re  that  looks  on  thee 
Ere  long  shall  slumber  in  the  dust, 

And  wake  no  more,  until  it  see 
The  resurrection  of  the  just : 

— May  He,  to  whom  that  eye  belongs, 

Join  their  assembly  and  their  songs. 

Whose  is  that  eye  ? — Just  now  'tis  mine, 

But,  reader  !  when  thou  look'st  'tis  thine. 


1825. 


THE  GNAT. 


Written  with  pencil  round  an  insect  of  that  kind,  which  had  been  accidentally 
crushed,  and  remained  fixed  on  a  blank  page  of  a  Lady's  Album. 

Lie  here  embalm'd,  from  age  to  age ; 
This  is  the  album's  noblest  page, 
Though  every  glowing  leaf  be  fraught 
With  painting,  poetry,  and  thought ; 
Where  tracks  of  mortal  hands  are  seen, 
A  hand  invisible  hath  been, 
And  left  this  autograph  behind, 
This  image  from  th'  eternal  Mind ; 
A  work  of  skill,  surpassing  sense, 
A  labour  of  Omnipotence  ; 
Though  frail  as  dust  it  meet  thine  eye, 
He  form'd  this  gnat  who  built  the  sky. 

Stop — lest  it  vanish  at  thy  breath, 
This  speck  had  life,  and  suffer'd  death. 

1832. 


MORNA.  435 


MORNA. 


Macpherson'a  Ossian  has  had  many  admirers  ;  and  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  the 
compositions  attributed  to  the  son  of  Fingal  abound  with  striking  imagery, 
heroic  sentiment,  and  hardy  expression,  the  effect  of  which,  on  young  minds 
especially,  may  be  highly  exhilarating  for  a  while.  But,  independent  of  the 
obscurity,  sameness,  and  repetition,  which  were  probably  characteristic  of  the 
originals— whatever  those  originals  may  have  been — the  translation  is  "done 
into  English,"  in  such  a  "Babylonish  dialect,"  that,  it  might  be  presumed, 
no  ear  accustomed  to  the  melody  of  pure  prose  or  the  freedom  of  eloquent 
vers^fcould  endure  the  incongruities  of  a  style,  in  which  broken  verse  of 
various  measures,  and  halting  prose  of  almost  unmanageable  cadences,  com- 
pound sentences  as  difficult  to  read  and  as  dissonant  to  hear,  as  a  strain  of 
music  would  be  in  execution  and  effect,  if  every  bar  were  set  to  a  different 
time  and  in  a  different  key.  If  for  such  wild  works  of  imagination  a  corre- 
sponding diction  be  desirable,  a  style  between  prose  and  verse,  not  a  heteroge- 
neous jumbling  of  both,  might  perhaps  be  invented.  For  this  we  must  have  a 
poetical  foundation  with  a  prose  superstructure  ;  the  former,  that  the  vehicle 
of  thought  may  admit  of  florid  embellishment;  the  latter,  that  full  license  may 
be  obtained  of  accommodating,  by  expansion  or  contraction,  the  scope  of  the 
ideas,  unincumbered  with  rhyme,  and  unrestricted  by  infrangible  metrical 
trammels. 

The  episode  of  Morna  is,  perhaps,  the  most  truly  beautiful  and  pathetic,  as  well 
as  simple  and  intelligible,  narrative  among  these  rhapsodical  productions. 
In  the  following  experiment,  which  is  submitted  to  the  curious,  the  anapaestic 
foot  is  adopted  as  the  groundwork,  because  cadences  of  that  measure  have 
peculiar  fluency.  There  is  some  difficulty,  indeed,  to  the  reader,  in  hitting 
the  right  accents  at  all  times,  from  the  great  laxity  of  our  language  in  that 
respect,  and  the  carelessness  of  writers;  yet  as  this  movement  admits  of  the 
utmost  variety  of  subdivisions,  and  the  lines  may  be  lengthened  or  shortened, 
according  to  the  burden  of  the,  matter  of  each,  it  is  well  suited  to  a  mode  of 
composition,  which  would  blend  the  harmony  of  song  with  the  freedom  of  dis- 
course, if  such  union  were  compatible.  This,  to  some  extent,  has  been  proved 
practicable  in  many  passages  of  several  English  translations  of  the  Psalms 
and  the  Prophecies,  of  which  a  very  perfect  specimen  may  be  found  in  the 
first  seven  verses  of  the  ninety-fifth  Psalm,  according  to  the  Common  Prayer- 
book  rendering-.  When  read  with  simplicity,  and  the  due  accent  laid  upon  the 
long  syllables, nothing  perhaps  in  human  Bpeeeb  can  be  quoted  more  delicately 
implicated  than  the  clauses,  or  more  melodious  than  the  sequence  of  plain 
Savon  sounds  that  compose  the  diction,  while  the  variety  of  cadence  and  the 
change  of  cesura  in  every  turn  of  the  thought  is  not  less  admirable.  The  strain 
passes  into  entirely  another  key  from  the  eighth  verse  inclusive  to  the  end, 
the  theme  in  fact  suggesting  a  correspondent  change  to  the  minstrel's  hand, 
when  he  drops  the  hortatory  preamble,  and  proceeds  to  the  historical  argu- 
ment, or  rather,  when  he  gives  way  abruptly  at  the  sound  of  the  very  voice 
to  which  he  is  calling  upon  his  bearers  to  hearken ;  while  Jehovah  himself 
from  between  the  cherubim  (lor  the  Bcene  is  in  the  temple)  speaks  out, 
"Harden  not  your  hearts  as  in  the  provocation  *  *  *  *  when  vmir  fathers 
tempted  me,  proved  me,  and  saw  my  works,"  ice,  to  the  fearful  close  of  the 
psalm. 


436  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

The  following  attempt  to  tame  what  has  been  called  "prose  run  mad,"  into 
what  may  easily  be  designated  by  a  phrase  not  less  opprobrious,  is  made  upon 
a  principle  more  strictly  rhythmical  than  the  measured  style  of  our  vernacular 
translations  of  Scripture  poetry;  and  in  behalf  of  it  a  claim  to  be  received 
with  indulgence  by  the  admirers  of  Gaelic  legends  may  be  fairly  preferred, 
since  the  offence,  if  it  be  one,  against  good  taste  is  not  likely  to  be  imitated, 
nor  will  the  original  culprit  soon  be  induced  to  repeat  it,  being  himself  of 
opinion,  that  though  a  few  pages  got  up  in  this  manner  may  not  be  unpleasing, 
a  volume  would  be  intolerable. 

It  may  be  necessary  to  add,  that  this  experiment  on  the  tale  of  Morna  has  not 
been  made  from  Macpherson,  but  from  a  version  of  Fingal,  of  which  a  few 
copies  only  were  printed  at  Edinburgh  some  years  ago,  for  private  circulation. 
Whether  the  work  has  ever  been  further  published,  the  present  writer  knows 
not ;  but  it  appeared  to  him,  on  the  hasty  perusal  of  a  lent  copy,  preferable  to 
the  old  one. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

Cathbat  and  Morna  are  lovers.  Duchomar,  the  rival  of  Cathbat,  having  slain 
the  latter  in  the  chase,  meets  Morna,  tells  her  what  he  has  done,  and  wooes 
her  for  himself.  In  the  course  of  the  interview  they  fall  by  each  other's  hands, 
and  die  together. — The  story  is  supposed  to  be  related  to  Cuchullin,  general 
of  the  tribes  of  Erin,  who,  at  the  conclusion,  laments  the  premature  loss  of  the 
two  valiant  warriors,  and  the  death  of  the  maiden. 

Cathbat  fell  by  the  sword  of  Duchomar, 
At  the  oak  of  the  loud-rolling  stream  ; 
Duchomar  came  to  the  cave  of  the  forest, 
And  spake  to  the  gentle  maid. 

"  Morna !  fairest  of  women  ! 
Beautiful  daughter  of  high-born  Cormac  ! 
Wherefore  alone  in  the  circle  of  stones, 
Alone  at  the  cave  of  the  mountain  ? 
The  old  oak  sounds  in  the  wind, 
That  ruffles  the  distant  lake  ; 
Black  clouds  engirdle  the  gloomy  horizon ; 
But  thou  art  like  snow  on  the  heath  ; 
Thy  ringlets  resemble  the  light  mist  of  Cromla, 
When  it  winds  round  the  sides  of  the  hill, 
In  the  beams  of  the  evening  sun." 

"  Whence  comest  thou,  sternest  of  men  ?" 
Said  the  maid  of  the  graceful  locks  ; 
"  Evermore  dark  was  thy  brow  ; 
Now  red  is  thine  eye,  and  ferocious ; 
Doth  Swaram  appear  on  the  sea  ? 
What  tidings  from  Lochlin?" 


MORNA.  437 


"  No  tidings  from  Lochlin,  O  Morna  ! 
I  come  from  the  mountains  ; 
I  come  from  the  chase  of  the  fleet-footed  hind  : 
Throe  red  deer  have  fallen  by  my  arrows  ; 
One  fell  for  thee,  fair  daughter  of  Cormac  ! 
As  my  soul  do  I  love  thee,  white-handed  maiden  ! 
Queen  of  the  hearts  of  men  !" 

"  Duchomar  !"  the  maiden  replied, 
"  None  of  my  love  is  for  thee  : 
Dark  is  thine  eyebrow,  thy  bosom  is  darker, 
And  hard  as  the  rock  is  thine  heart : 
But,  thou,  the  dear  offspring  of  Armin, 
Cathbat !  art  Morna's  love. 
Bright  as  the  sunbeams  thy  beautiful  locks, 
When  the  mist  of  the  valley  is  climbing  the  mountain 
Saw'st  thou  the  chief,  the  young  hero, 
Cathbat  the  brave,  in  thy  course  on  the  hill  ? 
The  daughter  of  Cormac  the  mighty 
Tarries  to  welcome  her  love  from  the  field." 

"  Long  shalt  thou  tarry,  O  Morna  !" 
Sullenly,  fiercely,  Duchomar  replied  : 
"  Long  shalt  thou  tarry,  O  Morna ! 
To  welcome  the  rude  son  of  Armin  ! 
Lo  !  on  this  sharp-edged  sword, 
Red  to  the  hilt  is  the  life-blood  of  Cathbat : 
Slain  is  thine  hero, 
By  me  he  was  slain  : 
His  cairn  will  I  build  upon  Crotnla. 
— Daughter  of  blue-shielded  Cormac  ! 
Turn  on  Duchomar  thine  eye." 

"  Fallen  in  death  is  the  brave  son  of  Armin  ?" 
The  maiden  exclaim'd  with  the  voice  of  love  : 
"  Fallen  in  death  on  the  pine-crested  hill  ? 
The  loveliest  youth  of  the  host ! 
Of  heroes  the  first  in  the  chase  ! 
The  direst  of  foes  to  the  sea-roving  stranger  ! — 
Dark  is  Duchomar  in  wrath; 
Deadly  his  arm  to  m  •  ; 

37* 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Foe  unto  Morna  ! — but  lend  me  thy  weapon, 
Cathbat  I  loved,  and  I  love  his  blood." 

He  yielded  the  sword  to  her  tears ; 
She  plunged  the  red  blade  through  his  side ; 
He  fell  by  the  stream  ; 

He  stretch'd  forth  his  hand,  and  his  voice  was  heard : 
"  Daughter  of  blue-shielded  Cormac  ! 
Thou  hast  cut  off  my  youth  from  renown  ; 
Cold  is  the  sword,  the  glory  of  heroes, 
Cold  in  my  bosom,  O  Morna ! 
— Ah  !  give  me  to  Moina  the  maiden, 
For  I  am  her  dream  in  the  darkness  of  night ; 
My  tomb  she  will  build  in  the  midst  of  the  camp, 
That  the  hunter  may  hail  the  bright  mark  of  my  fame. 
— But  draw  forth  the  sword  from  my  bosom, 
For  cold  is  the  blade,  O  Morna  !" 

Slowly  and  weeping  she  came, 
And  drew  forth  the  sword  from  his  side ; 
He  seized  it,  and  struck  the  red  steel  to  her  heart ; 
She  fell : — on  the  earth  lay  her  tresses  dishevell'd, 
The  blood  gurgled  fast  from  the  wound, 
And  crimson'd  her  arm  of  snow. 


"  Tell  me  no  more  of  the  maiden  !" 
Cuchullin,  the  war-chief  of  Erin  replied : 
— "  Peace  to  the  souls  of  the  heroes  ! 
Their  prowess  was  great  in  the  conflict  of  swords ; 
Let  them  glide  by  my  chariot  in  war ! 
Let  their  spirits  appear  in  the  clouds  o'er  the  valley  ! 
So  shall  my  breast  be  undaunted  in  danger  ! 

"  Be  thou  like  a  moon-beam,  O  Morna  ! 
When  my  sight  is  beginning  to  fail ; 
When  my  soul  is  reposing  in  peace, 
And  the  tumult  of  war  is  no  more." 


THE    VALENTINE    WREATH.  439 


THE  VALENTINE  WREATH. 

Rosy-red  the  hills  appear 

With  the  light  of  morning, 

Beauteous  clouds,  in  ether  clear, 

All  the  east  adorning ; 

White  through  mist  the  meadows  shine, 

Wake,  my  love,  my  Valentine  ! 

For  thy  locks  of  raven-hue, 
Flowers  with  hoar-frost  pearly, 
Crocus-^ips  of  gold  and  blue, 
Snowd^)s  drooping  early, 
With  mezereon-sprigs  combine ; 
Rise,  my  love,  my  Valentine  ! 

O'er  the  margin  of  the  flood, 
Pluck  the  daisy,  peeping  ; 
Through  the  dry  leaves  in  the  wood, 
Hunt  the  sorrel  creeping; 
With  the  little  celandine, 
Crown  my  love,  my  Valentine  ! 

Pansies,  on  their  lowly  sterns, 
Scatter' d  o'er  the  fallows  ; 
Hazel-buds,  with  crimson  gems, 
Green  and  glossy  sallows  ; 
Tufted  moss  and  ivy-twine, 
Deck  my  love,  my  Valentine  ! 

Few  and  simple  flowerets  these  ; 
Yet  to  me  less  glorious, 
Garden-beds  and  orchard-trees, 
Since  this  wreath  victorious 
Binds  thee  now  for  ever  mine, 
O  my  love,  my  Valentine  ! 

1811. 


440  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  WIDOW. 

Written  at  the  request  of  a  Lad}',  who  furnished  several  of  the  lines  and  the 
plan  of  the  whole. 

Ah  !  who  is  she  that  sits  and  weeps, 
And  gazes  on  the  narrow  mound  ? 
— In  that  fresh  grave  her  true  love  sleeps, 
Her  heart  lies  with  him  in  the  ground : 
She  heeds  not,  while  her  babe,  at  play, 
Plucks  the  frail  flowers,  that  gai^bloom, 
And  casts  them,  ere  they  fade  av^r, 
In  garlands,  on  its  father's  tomb ; 
— Unconscious  where  its  father  lies, 
"  Sweets  to  the  sweet !"  the  prattler  cries  ; 
Ah  !  then  she  starts,  looks  up,  her  eyes  o'erflow 
With  all  a  mother's  love,  and  all  a  widow's  wo. 

Again  she  turns  away  her  head, 

Nor  marks  her  infant's  sportive  air, 

Its  cherub-cheeks  all  rosy -red, 

Its  sweet  blue  eyes  and  ringlet-hair; 

Silent  she  turns  away  her  head, 

Nor  dare  behold  that  smile-bright  face, 

Where  live  the  features  of  the  dead 

In  lineaments  of  fairy-grace  : 

For  there  at  once,  with  transport  wild, 

She  sees  her  husband  and  her  child ; 
Ah !  then  her  bosom  burns,  her  eyes  o'erflow 
With  all  a  mother's  love,  and  all  a  widow's  wo. 

And  still  I  find  her  sitting  here, 
Though  dark  October  frowns  on  all ; 
And  from  the  lime-trees  rustling  near, 
The  scatter'd  leaves  around  her  fall ; 


THE    WIDOW.  441 


O  then  it  charms  her  inmost  soul, 

It  suits  the  sadness  of  her  mind, 

To  watch  the  clouds  of  autumn  roll, 

And  listen  to  the  moaning  wind ; 

In  every  shadow,  every  blast, 

The  spirits  of  enjoyments  past, 
She  sees,  she  hears  ; — ah  !  then  her  eyes  o'erflow 
Not  with  the  mother's  love,  but  with  the  widow's  wo. 

Yon  peasant  dreads  a  gathering  storm, 

Yet  pauses  as  he  hastens  by, 

Marks  the  pale  ruin  of  her  form, 

The  desolation  of  her  eye  ; 

Beholds  her  babe  for  shelter  creep 

Behind  the  grave-stone's  dreary  shade, 

Where  all  its  father's  sorrows  sleep, 

And  all  its  mother's  hopes  are  laid ; 

Remembering  then  his  own  heart's  joy, 

A  rosy  wife,  a  blooming  boy  ; 
"  Ah  me  !"  he  sighs,  "when  I  am  thus  laid  low, 
Must  my  poor  partner  feel  a  widow'd  mother's  wo?" 

He  gently  stretches  out  his  arm, 
And  calls  the  babe  in  accents  mild ; 
The  mother  shrieks  with  strange  alarm, 
And  snatches  up  her  wondering  child  ; 
She  thought  that  voice  of  tender  tone, 
Those  accents  soft,  endearing,  kind, 
Came  from  beneath  the  hollow  stone  ! 
— He  marks  the  wandering  of  her  mind, 
And  thankful  for  his  happier  lot, 
Seeks  the  warm  comforts  of  his  cot ; 

He  meets  his  wife  ; — ah  !  then  his  eyes  o'erflow ; 

She  feels  a  mother's  love,  nor  dreads  a  widow's  wo. 

The  storm  retires  ; — and  hark  !  the  bird, 
The  lonely  bird  of  autumn's  reign, 
From  the  church  pinnacle  is  heard ; 
O  what  a  clear  and  simple  strain  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


See  the  delighted  mourner  start, 
While  Robin  red-breast's  evening  sonar 
Pours  all  its  sweetness  through  her  heart, 
And  soothes  it  as  it  trills  along : 
Then  gleams  her  eye,  her  fancy  hears 
The  warbled  music  of  the  spheres ; 
She  clasps  her  babe  ;  she  feels  her  bosom  glow, 
And  in  a  mother's  love  forgets  a  widow's  wo. 

Go  to  thine  home,  forsaken  fair ! 

Go  to  thy  solitary  home  ; 

Thou  lovely  pilgrim,  in  despair, 

To  thy  saint's  shrine  no  longer  roam ; 

He  rests  not  here  ; — thy  soul's  delight 

Attends  where'er  thy  footsteps  tread  ; 

He  watches  in  the  depth  of  night, 

A  guardian-angel  round  thy  bed  ; 

And  still  a  father,  fondly  kind, 

Eyes  the  dear  pledge  he  left  behind  : 
So  love  may  deem,  and  death  may  prove  it  so : 
— In  heaven  at  least  there  is  no  widow's  wo ; 
Thither,  in  following  him,  with  thy  sweet  infant  go. 


MOTTO  TO  "A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO." 

(fragment  of  a  page  of  oblivion.) 

Fall'n  feathers  of  a  moulting  wing, 

Which  ne'er  again  may  soar  ; 

Notes,  sung  in  autumn  woods,  where  Spring 

Shall  hear  their  sounds  no  more: 

Her  voice  and  plume — the  bird  renews  ; 

Man  fails  but  once  ; — 'tis  in  the  tomb, 

His  strength  he  mews. 


1835. 


AT    HOME    IN    HEAVEN.  443 


AT  HOME  IN  HEAVEN. 


1  Thess.  iv.  17. 


Part  I. 


"For  ever  with  the  Lord  !" 

— Amen,  so  let  it  be  ; 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word, 

'Tis  immortality. 

Here  in  the  body  pent, 

Absent  from  Him  I  roam ; 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 

A  day's  march  nearer  home. 

My  Father's  house  on  hicrh, 
Home  of  my  soul,  how  near, 

At  times,  to  faith's  foreseeing  eye, 
Thy  golden  gates  appear  ! 

Ah  !  then  my  spirit  faints 

To  reach  the  land  I  love, 
The  bright  inheritance  of  saints, 

Jerusalem  above. 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene, 
And  all  my  prospect  flies ; 

Like  Noah's  dove,  I  flit  between 
Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  dispart, 

The  winds  and  waters  cease, 

While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladden'd  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Beneath  its  glowing  arch, 
Along  the  hallow'd  ground, 

I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 
At  noon  and  midnight  hour, 

The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 
Earth's  Babel-tongues  o'erpower. 

Then,  then  I  feel  that  He, 

(Remember'd  or  forgot,) 
The  Lord  is  never  far  from  me, 

Though  I  perceive  Him  not. 

Part  II. 

In  darkness  as  in  light, 

Hidden  alike  from  view, 
I  sleep,  I  wake  within  his  sight, 

Who  looks  existence  through. 

From  the  dim  hour  of  birth, 
Through  every  changing  state 

Of  mortal  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Till  its  appointed  date  ; 

All  that  I  am,  have  been, 

All  that  I  yet  may  be, 
He  sees  at  once,  as  He  hath  seen, 

And  shall  for  ever  see. 

How  can  I  meet  His  eyes  ? 

Mine  on  the  cross  I  cast, 
And  own  my  life  a  Saviour's  prize, 

Mercy  from  first  to  last. 

"  For  ever  with  the  Lord  !" 
—■Father,  if  'tis  thy  will, 

The  promise  of  that  faithful  word, 
Even  here  to  me  fulfil. 


AT    HOME    IN    HEAVEN.  445 

Be  thou  at  my  right  hand, 

Then  can  I  never  fail ; 
Uphold  Thou  me,  and  I  shall  stand, 

Fight,  and  I  must  prevail. 

So  when  my  latest  breath 

Shall  rend  the  veil  in  twain, 
By  death  I  shall  escape  from  death, 

And  life  eternal  gain. 

Knowing  as  I  am  known, 

How  shall  I  love  that  word, 
And  oft  repeat  before  the  throne, 

"  For  ever  with  the  Lord  !" 

Then  though  the  soul  enjoy 

Communion  high  and  sweet, 
While  worms  this  body  must  destroy, 

Both  shall  in  glory  meet. 

The  trump  of  final  doom 

Will  speak  the  self-same  word, 
And  heaven's  voice  thunder  through  the  tomb, 

"  For  ever  with  the  Lord  !" 

The  tomb  shall  echo  deep 

That  death-awakening  sound ; 
The  saints  shall  hear  it  in  their  sleep, 

And  answer  from  the  ground. 

Then  upward  as  they  fly, 

That  resurrection-word 
Shall  be  their  shout  of  victory, 

"For  ever  with  the  Lord  !" 

That  resurrection-word, 

That  shout  of  victory, 
Once  more, — "  For  ever  with  the  Lord  !" 

Amen,  so  let  it  be. 


38 


446  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  VEIL. 

There  is  a  veil  no  mortal  hand  can  draw, 
Which  hides  what  eye  of  mortal  never  saw  ; 
Through  that  (each  moment  by  the  dying  riven) 
Could  but  a  glance  be  to  the  living  given, 
How  into  nothing,  less  than  nothing,  all 
Life's  vanities,  life's  verities  would  fall, 
And  that  alone  of  priceless  worth  be  deem'd, 
Which  is  most  lightly  by  the  world  esteem'd ! 

Enough  is  known  ;  there  is  a  heaven,  a  hell ; 
Who  'scapes  the  last  and  wins  the  first  doth  well : 
Whither  away,  my  soul ! — in  which  wouldst  thou 
Emerge  from  life,  were  death  to  smite  me  now  ? 

1834. 


HEAVEN  IN  PROSPECT. 

Palms  of  glory,  raiment  bright, 
Crowns  that  never  fade  away, 

Gird,  and  deck  the  saints  in  light, 

Priests  and  kings  and, conquerors  they. 

Yet  the  conquerors  bring  their  palms 
To  the  Lamb  amidst  the  throne, 

And  proclaim,  in  joyful  psalms, 
Victory  through  his  cross  alone. 

Kings  for  harps  their  crowns  resign, 
Crying,  as  they  strike  the  chords, 

"  Take  the  kingdom, — it  is  thine, 
King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords." 

Round  the  altar,  priests  confess, 
If  their  robes  are  white  as  snow, 

'Twas  the  Saviour's  righteousness, 
And  his  blood  that  made  them  so. 


447 


Who  were  these  ? — on  earth  they  dwelt, 
Sinners  once  of  Adam's  race, 

Guilt,  and  fear,  and  suffering  felt, 
But  were  saved  by  sovereign  grace. 

They  were  mortal,  too,  like  us ; 

— Ah  !  when  we,  like  them,  shall  die, 
May  our  souls,  translated  thus, 

Triumph,  reign,  and  shine  on  high ! 


ON    THE 

FIRST  LEAF  OF  MISS  J.'S  ALBUM. 

What  thoughts,  beyond  the  reach  of  thought 

To  guess  what  they  may  be, 
Shall  in  succession  here  be  brought 

From  depths  no  eye  can  see  ! 

Those  thoughts  are  now  upon  their  way, 

Like  light  from  stars  unseen, 
Though,  ere  they  reach  us,  many  a  day 

And  year  may  intervene  : — 

Thoughts,  which  shall  spring  in  friendship's  breast, 

Or  genius  touch  with  fire  ; 
Thoughts,  which  good  angels  may  suggest, 

Or  God  himself  inspire. 

Such,  o'er  these  pages  pure  and  white, 

By  many  a  willing  hand, 
Be  writ  in  characters  of  light, 

And  here  unfading  stand  ! 

That  she  who  owns  the  whole  may  find, 

Reveal'd  in  every  part, 
The  trace  of  some  ingenuous  mind, 

The  love  of  some  warm  heart. 


448  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  SAND  AND  THE  ROCK. 

"I  will  open  my  dark  saying  upon  the  harp."— Psalm  xlix.4. 

Part  I. 

DESTRUCTION. 

I  built  my  house  upon  the  sand, 

And  saw  its  image  in  the  sea, 
That  seem'd  as  stable  as  the  land, 

And  beautiful  as  heaven  to  me. 

For  in  the  clear  and  tranquil  tide, 

As  in  a  nether  firmament, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  appear'd  to  glide, 

.And  lights  and  shadows  came  and  went. 

I  ate  and  drank,  I  danced  and  sung, 
Reclined  at  ease,  at  leisure  stroll'd, 

Collecting  shells  and  pebbles,  flung 
Upon  the  beach,  for  gems  and  gold. 

I  said  unto  my  soul,  "  Rejoice  ! 

In  safety,  wealth,  and  pleasure  here  ;" 
But  while  I  spake,  a  secret  voice, 

Within  my  bosom,  whisper'd  "Fear!" 

I  heeded  not,  and  went  to  rest, 

Prayerless,  once  more,  beneath  my  roof, 
Nor  deem'd  the  eagle  on  his  nest 

More  peril-free,  more  tempest-proof. 

But  in  the  dead  and  midnight  hour 
A  storm  came  down  upon  the  deep  ; 

Wind,  rain,  and  lightning,  such  a  stour, 
Methought  'twas  doomsday  in  my  sleep. 

I  strove,  but  could  not  wake, — the  stream 
Beat  vehemently  on  my  wall ; 


THE    SAND    AND    THE    ROCK.  419 

I  felt  it  tottering  in  my  dream ; 
It  fell,  and  dreadful  was  the  fall. 

Swept  with  the  ruins  down  the  flood, 

I  woke  ;  home,  hope,  and  heart  were  gone  ; 

My  brain  flash'd  fire,  ice  thrill'd  my  blood  ; 
Life,  life  was  all  I  thought  upon. 

Death,  death  was  all  that  met  my  eye ; 

Deep  swallow'd  deep,  wave  buried  wave  ; 
I  look'd  in  vain  for  land  and  sky  ; 

All  was  one  sea, — that  sea  one  grave. 

I  struirsrled  through  the  strano-lin"-  tide, 
As  though  a  bowstring  wrung  my  nefk  ; 

"Help!   help!"  voice  fail'd, — I  fain  had  cried, 
And  clung  convulsive  to  the  wreck. 

Not  lonir, — for  suddenly  a  spot 

Of  darkness  fell  upon  my  brain, 
Which  spread  and  press'd,  till  I  forgot 

All  pain  in  that  excess  of  pain. 

Part  II. 

TRANSITION'. 

Two  woes  were  past ;  a  worse  befell ; 

When  I  revived,  the  sea  had  fled  ; 
Beneath  me  yawned  the  gulf  of  hell, 

Broad  as  the  vanish'd  ocean's  bed. 

Downward  I  seem'd  to  plunge  through  space, 

As  lightning  flashes  and  expires, 
Yet — how  I  knew  not — turn'd  my  face 

Away  from  those  terrific  fires  ; — 

And  saw,  in  glory  throned  afar, 

A  human  form  yet  all  divine  ; 
Beyond  the  track  of  sun  or  star, 

High  o'er  all  height  it  seem'd  to  shine. 

'Twas  He  who  in  the  furnace  walk'd 

With  Shadrach,  and  controll'd  its  power; 

"7  38* 


450  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

'Twas  He  with  whom  Elias  talk'd, 
In  his  transfiguration-hour. 

'Twas  He  whom,  in  the  lonely  Isle 

Of  Patmos,  John  in  spirit  saw  ; 
And  at  the  lightning  of  his  smile, 

Fell  down  as  dead,  entranced  with  awe. 

From  his  resplendent  diadem, 

A  ray  shot  through  mine  inmost  soul ; 

"Could  I  but  touch  his  garment's  hem," 

Methought,  "  like  her  whom  faith  made  whole !" 

Faifh,  faith  was  given ; — though  nigh  and  nigher, 
Swift  verging  tow'rds  the  gulf  below, 

I  stretch'd  my  hand  ; — but  high  and  higher, 
Ah  me  !  the  vision  seem'd  to  go. 

"  Save,  Lord,  I  perish  !" — while  I  cried, 

Some  miracle  of  mercy  drew 
My  spirit  upward  ; — hell  yawn'd  wide, 

And  follow'd  ; — upwards  still  I  flew: — 

And  upwards  still  the  surging  flame 
Pursued  ; — yet  all  was  clear  above, 

Whence  brighter,  sweeter,  kindlier  came 
My  blessed  Saviour's  looks  of  love. 

Till  with  a  sudden  flash  forth  beam'd 

The  fulness  of  the  Deity : — 
Hell's  jaws  collapsed  ;  I  felt  redeem'd  ; 

The  snare  was  broken,  I  was  free. 

A  voice  from  heaven  proclaimed, — "  'Tis  done  !" 
Then,  like  a  homeward  ray  of  light 

From  the  last  planet  to  the  sun, 

I  darted  through  the  abyss  of  night. 

Till  He  put  forth  his  hand,  to  meet 

Mine,  grasping  at  infinity  ; 
He  caught  me,  set  me  on  my  feet ; 

I  fell  at  his  in  ecstasy. 


451 


What  follow'd,  human  tongue  in  vain 
Would  question  language  to  disciose  : 

Enough, — that  I  was  born  again  ; 
From  death  to  life  that  hour  I  rose. 

Part  III. 

RESTITUTION. 

I  built  once  more,  but  on  a  rock 

(Faith's  strong  foundation  firm  and  sure) 
Fix'd  mine  abode,  the  heaviest  shock 

Of  time  and  tempest  to  endure. 

Not  small,  nor  large,  not  low,  nor  high, 
Midway  it  stands  upon  the  steep, 

Beneath  the  storm-mark  of  the  sky, 
Above  the  flood-mark  of  the  deep. 

And  here  I  humbly  wait,  while  He, 
Who  pluck'd  me  from  the  lowest  hell, 

Prepares  a  heavenly  house  for  me, 

Then  calls  me  home  with  Him  to  dwell. 


"LOVEST  THOU  ME?' 

John  xxi.  15—17. 


"  Lovest  thou  me?"  I  hear  my  Saviour  say  : 
Would  that  my  heart  had  power  to  answer — "  Yea ; 
Thou  knowest  all  things,  Lord,  in  heaven  above, 
And  earth  beneath  ;  Thou  knowest  that  I  love." 
But  'tis  not  so ;  in  word,  in  deed,  in  thought, 
I  do  not,  cannot  love  thee  as  I  ought  ; 
Thy  love  must  give  that  power,  thy  love  alone ; 
There's  nothing  worthy  of  thee  but  thine  own ; 
Lord,  with  the  love  wherewith  thou  lovedst  me, 
Reflected  on  thyself,  /  would  love  thee. 


452  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


GARDEN  THOUGHTS. 

On  occasion  of  a  Christian  assembly  in  the  grounds  of  a  gentleman  at  York,  for 
the  purpose  of  promoting  Missions  among  the  Heathen. 

In  a  garden — man  was  placed, 

Meet  abode  for  innocence, 
With  his  Maker's  image  graced  ; 

— Sin  crept  in  and  drove  him  thence, 
Through  the  world,  a  wretch  undone, 
Seeking  rest,  and  finding  none. 

In  a  garden — on  that  night, 

When  our  Saviour  was  betray'd, 
With  what  world-redeeming  might, 

In  his  agony  he  pray'd  ! 
Till  he  drank  the  vengeance  up, 
And  with  mercy  fill'd  the  cup. 

In  a  garden — on  the  cross, 

When  the  spear  his  heart  had  riven, 

And  for  earth's  primeval  loss, 

Heaven's  best  ransom  had  been  given, 

— Jesus  rested  from  his  woes, 

Jesus  from  the  dead  arose. 

Here,  not  Eden's  bowers  are  found, 

Nor  forlorn  Gethsemane, 
Nor  that  calm,  sepulchral  ground 

At  the  foot  of  Calvary  ; 
— Yet  this  scene  may  well  recall 
Sweet  remembrances  of  all. 

Emblem  of  the  church  below  ! 
Where  the  Spirit  and  the  Word 


GARDEN    THOUGHTS.  453 


Fall  like  dews,  like  breezes  blow, 

And  the  Lord  God's  voice  is  heard, 
Walking  in  the  cool  of  day, 
While  the  world  is  far  away  : — 

Emblem  of  the  church  above  ! 

Where,  as  in  their  native  clime, 
Midst  the  garden  of  his  love, 

Rescued  from  the  rage  of  time, 
Saints,  as  trees  of  life,  shall  stand, 
Planted  by  his  own  right  hand  ! 

Round  the  fair  enclosure  here 

Flames  no  cherub's  threatening  sword, 
Ye  who  enter  feel  no  fear : 

— Roofd  by  heaven,  with  verdure  floor'd, 
Breathing  balm  from  blossoms  gay, 
This  be  paradise  to-day. 

Yet  one  moment  meditate 

On  our  parents'  banishment, 
When  from  Eden's  closing  gate, 

Hand  in  hand,  they  weeping  went, 
Spikenard  groves  no  more  to  dress, 
But  a  thorn-set  wilderness. 

Then  remember  Him  who  laid 

Uncreated  splendour  by, 
Lower  than  the  angels  made, 

Fallen  man  to  glorify, 
And  from  death  beyond  the  grave 
Until  life  immortal  save. 

Think  of  Him — your  souls  He  sought, 

Wandering,  never  to  return  ; 
Hath  He  found  you  ? — At  the  thought 

Your  glad  hearts  within  you  burn  ; 
Then  your  love  like  His  extend, 
Be  like  Him  the  sinner's  friend. 


454  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

O'er  Jerusalem  he  wept, 

Doom'd  to  perish  ; — can't  you  weep 
O'er  a  world,  by  Satan  kept 

Dreaming  in  delirious  sleep, 
Till  the  twinkle  of  an  eye 
Wakes  them  in  eternity  ? 

Ye,  who  smile  in  rosy  youth, 

Glow  with  manhood,  fade  through  years, 
Send  the  life,  the  light,  the  truth, 

To  dead  hearts,  blind  eyes,  deaf  ears, 
And  your  very  pleasures  make 
Charities  for  Jesus'  sake. 

So  shall  gospel -glory  run 

Round  the  globe,  to  every  clime, 

Brighter  than  the  circling  sun, 
Hastening  that  millennial  time, 

When  the  earth  shall  be  restored 


1829. 


As  the  garden  of  the  Lord. 


TO  MR.  AND  MRS.  T., 

OF   *ORK. 
WITH   THE    FOREGOING    STANZAS. 

Ye  who  own  this  quiet  place, 

Here,  like  Enoch,  walk  with  God  ; 

And,  till  summon' d  hence,  through  grace, 
Tread  the  path  your  Saviour  trod  ; 

Then  to  paradise  on  high, 

With  the  wings  of  angels  fly. 


1 

THE    FIELD    OF    THE    WORLD.  455 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed, 
At  eve  hold  not  thine  hand  ; 

To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed, 
Broad-cast  it  o'er  the  land. 

Beside  all  waters  sow, 

The  highway  furrows  stock. 

Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow, 
Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  good,  .the  fruitful  ground, 
Expect  not  here  nor  there  : 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  by  plots,  'tis  found  ; 
Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

Thou  know'st  not  which  may  thrive, 

The  late  or  early  sown  ; 
Grace  keeps  the  precious  germs  alive, 

When  and  wherever  strown. 

And  duly  shall  appear, 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength  ; 

The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear, 
And  the  full  corn  at  length*. 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain  ; 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain 

For  garners  in  the  sky. 

Thence,  when  the  glorious  end, 

The  day  of  God  is  come, 
The  ano-el-reapers  shall  descend, 

And  Heaven  cry — "  Harvest-home  !" 

1S32. 


456  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


FAREWELL  TO  A  MISSIONARY. 

Home,  kindred,  friends,  and  country, — these 
Are  things  with  which  we  never  part ; 

From  clime  to  clime,  o'er  land  and  seas, 
We  bear  them  with  us  in  our  heart ; 

And  yet  'tis  hard  to  feel  resign'd, 

When  they  must  all  be  left  behind. 

But  when  the  pilgrim's  staff  we  take, 
And  follow  Christ  from  shore  to  shore, 

Gladly  for  Him  we  all  forsake, 
Press  on,  and  only  look  before  ; 

Though  humbled  nature  mourns  her  loss, 

The  spirit  glories  in  the  cross. 

It  is  no  sin,  like  man,  to  weep, 

Even  Jesus  wept  o'er  Lazarus  dead; 

Or  yearn  for  home  beyond  the  deep, — 
He  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head ; 

The  patriot's  tears  will  He  condemn, 

Who  grieved  o'er  lost  Jerusalem? 

Take  up  your  cross,  and  say — "  Farewell :" 
Go  forth  without  the  camp  to  Him, 

Who  left  heaven's  throne  with  men  to  dwell, 
Who  died  his  murderers  to  redeem : 

Oh  !  tell  his  name  in  every  ear, 

Doubt  not, — the  dead  themselves  will  hear, — 

Hear,  and  come  forth  to  life  anew ; 

— Then  while  the  Gentile  courts  they  fill, 
Shall  not  your  Saviour's  words  stand  true  ? 

Home,  kindred,  friends,  and  country  still, 
In  earth's  last  desert  you  shall  find, 
Yet  lose  not  those  you  left  behind. 


THE    PRISONER    OF    THE    LORD.  457 


"THE  PRISONER  OF  THE  LORD." 

A   SABBATH    HYMN    FOR   A    SICK   CHAMBER. 

Thousands,  O  Lord  of  Hosts  !  this  day, 

Around  thine  altar  meet ; 
And  tens  of  thousands  throng  to  pay 

Their  homage  at  Thy  feet. 

They  see  Thy  power  and  glory  there, 

As  I  have  seen  them  too ; 
They  read,  they  hear,  they  join  in  prayer, 

As  I  was  wont  to  do. 

They  sing  Thy  deeds,  as  I  have  sung, 

In  sweet  and  solemn  lays  ; 
Were  I  among  them,  my  glad  tongue 

Might  learn  new  themes  of  praise. 

For  Thou  art  in  their  midst,  to  teach, 
When  on  Thy  name  they  call ; 

And  Thou  hast  blessings,  Lord,  for  each, 
Hast  blessings,  Lord,  for  all. 

I,  of  such  fellowship  bereft, 

In  spirit  turn  to  Thee  ; 
Oh  !  hast  Thou  not  a  blessing  left, 

A  blessing,  Lord,  for  me  ? 

The  dew  lies  thick  on  all  the  ground, 

Shall  my  poor  fleece  be  dry  ? 
The  manna  rains  from  heaven  around, 

Shall  I  of  hunger  die  ? 

Behold  Thy  prisoner ; — loose  my  bands, 

If  'tis  Thy  gracious  will ; 
If  not, — contented  in  thine  hands, 

Behold  Thy  prisoner  still ! 

3y 


458  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

I  may  not  to  Thy  courts  repair, 
Yet  here  Thou  surely  art ; 

Lord,  consecrate  a  house  of  prayer 
In  my  surrender' d  heart. 

To  faith  reveal  the  things  unseen, 
To  hope,  the  joys  untold ; 

Let  love,  without  a  veil  between, 
Thy  glory  now  behold. 

Oh  !  make  Thy  face  on  me  to  shine, 
That  doubt  and  fear  may  cease  ; 

Lift  up  Thy  countenance  benign 
On  me, — and  give  me  peace. 


AN  AFTER-THOUGHT. 

I  cannot  call  affliction  sweet, 
And  yet  'twas  good  to  bear ; 

Affliction  brought  me  to  Thy  feet, 
And  I  found  comfort  there. 

My  weaned  soul  was  all  resign' d 
To  Thy  most  gracious  will ; 

Oh  !  had  I  kept  that  better  mind, 
Or  been  afflicted  still ! 

Where  are  the  vows  which  then  I  vow'd, 
The  joys  which  then  I  knew  ? 

Those  vanish' d  like  the  morning  cloud, 
These  like  the  early  dew. 

Lord,  grant  me  grace  for  every  day, 
Whate'er  my  state  may  be ; 

Through  life,  in  death,  with  truth  to  say, 
"  My  God  is  all  to  me !" 

1831. 


459 


OUR  SAVIOUR'S  PRAYERS.* 

Preamble. 

High  Priest  for  sinners,  Jesus,  Lord  ! 

Whom  as  a  man  of  griefs  I  see, 
Thy  prayers  on  earth  while  I  record, 

If  still  in  heaven  thou  pray'st  for  me, 
My  soul  for  thy  soul's  travail  claim, 
I  seek  salvation  in  thy  name. 

Part  I. 

Baptized  as  for  the  dead  he  rose, 

With  prayer,  from  Jordan's  hallow'd  flood ; 

Ere  long,  by  persecuting  foes, 
To  be  baptized  in  his  own  blood : 

The  Father's  voice  proclaim'd  the  Son,  $£**• 

The  Spirit  witness'd  ; — these  are  one. 

Early  he  rose  ere  dawn  of  day,  %***  L 

And  to  a  desert  place  withdrew, 
There  was  he  wont  to  watch  and  pray, 

Until  his  locks  were  wet  with  dew, 
And  birds  below,  and  beams  above, 
Had  warn'd  him  thence  to  works  of  love. 

At  evening  when  his  toils  were  o'er, 

He  sent  the  multitudes  away, 
And  on  the  mountain  or  the  shore, 

All  night  remain 'd  alone  to  pray,  |^e  Ti- 

Till  o'er  his  head  the  stars  grew  dim : 
—When  was  the  hour  of  rest  for  him  ? 


*  In  these  stanzas  the  Scripture  quotations  are  from  those  passages  to  which 
direct  reference  is  intended  in  the  lines  themselves,  rather  than  to  the  corre- 
sponding accounts  of  the  same  transactions  by  others  of  the  sacred  historians. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


In  field  or  city  when  he  taught, 

Oft  went  his  spirit  forth  in  sighs  ; 
And  when  his  mightiest  deeds  were  wrought, 

To  heaven  he  lifted  up  his  eyes ; 
He  pray'd  at  Lazarus'  grave,  and  shed 
ft$l'     Tears,  with  the  word  that  waked  the  dead. 


Mark 
viii.  12. 


Mark 
vii.  34 


When  mothers  brought  their  babes,  he  took 
Jf'I'is.  Their  lambs  into  his  arms,  and  pray'd  ; 

On  Tabor,  his  transfigured  look, 
28u,k2e9.ix*         While  praying,  turn'd  the  sun  to  shade, 

And  forms,  too  pure  for  human  sight, 

Grew  visible  amidst  his  light. 

"  O  Father  !  save  me  from  this  hour, 
Yet  for  this  hour  to  earth  I  came  :" 

He  pray'd  in  weakness  ;  then  with  power 
Cried,  "  Father !  glorify  thy  name  :" 

"  I  have,"  a  voice  from  heaven  replied, 
john*n.     «  ^nd  stiu_  it  shall  be  glorified." 


Part  II. 

For  Peter,  bold  in  speech  and  brave 
In  act,  yet  in  temptation  frail, 

(As  once  he  proved  him  on  the  wave,) 
He  pray'd  lest  his  weak  faith  should  fail ; 

And  when  by  Satan's  snare  enthrall'd, 

His  eye  the  wanderer  recall'd. 

Amidst  his  mournful  family, 

Who  soon  must  see  his  face  no  more, 
With  what  divine  discourse  did  he 

Strength  to  their  fainting  souls  restore  ! 
Then  pray'd  for  all  his  people  : — where 
JS?         Have  words  recorded  such  a  prayer ! 

Het.  v.      Next,  with  strong  cries  and  bitter  tears, 

Thrice  hallow'd  he  that  doleful  ground, 


John 
xviii.  10. 

Matt. 
xiv.  31. 

Luke 
xxii.  32. 

Luke 
Mil.  61. 

PRAYER.  461 


Where,  trembling  with  mysterious  fears, 
His  sweat  like  blood-drops  fell  around, 
And  being  in  an  agony, 
He  prayed  yet  more  earnestly. 

Here  oft  in  spirit  let  me  kneel, 

Share  in  the  speechless  griefs  I  see, 
And  while  he  felt  what  I  should  feel, 

Feel  all  his  power  of  love  to  me, 
Break  my  hard  heart,  and  grace  supply 
For  him  who  died  for  me  to  die. 

Stretch'd  on  the  ignominious  tree 

For  those,  whose  hands  had  nail'd  him  there, 
Who  stood  and  mock'd  his  misery. 

He  offer' d  up  his  latest  prayer ; 
Then  with  the  voice  of  victory  cried, 
"  'Tis  finish'd,"  bow'd  his  head  and  died. 

Then  all  his  prayers  were  answer'd  ; — all 

The  fruits  of  his  soul's  travail  gain'd ; 
The  cup  of  wormwood  and  of  gall 

Down  to  the  dregs  his  lips  had  drain'd ; 
Accomplish'd  was  the  eternal  plan, 
He  tasted  death  for  every  man. 

Now  by  the  throne  of  God  he  stands, 

Aloft  the  golden  censer  bears, 
And  offers,  with  high  priestly  hands, 

Pure  incense  with  his  people's  prayers  :  %?*•  *iL 

Well  pleased  the  Father  eyes  the  Son, 
And  says  to  each  request,  "  'Tis  done." 


Lake 
xxiii.  W. 


39* 


402  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


REMINISCENCE. 

Remembrance  of  the  dead  revives 

The  slain  of  time,  at  will ; 
Those  who  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 

In  death  are  lovelier  still. 

Unburden'd  with  infirmity, 

Unplagued  like  mortal  men, 
Oh  with  what  pure  delight  we  see 

The  heart's  old  friends  again ; 

Not  as  they  sunk  into  the  tomb, 
With  sickness-wasted  powers, 

But  in  the  beauty  and  the  bloom 
Of  their  best  days  and  ours. 

The  troubles  of  departed  years 

Bring  joys  unknown  before  ; 
And  soul-refreshing  are  the  tears 

O'er  wounds  that  bleed  no  more. 

Lightnings  may  blast,  but  thunder-showers 

Earth's  ravaged  face  renew, 
With  nectar  fill  the  cups  of  flowers, 

And  hang  the  thorns  with  dew. 

Remembrance  of  the  dead  is  sweet ; 

Yet  how  imperfect  this, 
Unless  past,  present,  future,  meet, 

— A  threefold  cord  of  bliss  ! 

Companions  of  our  youth,  our  age, 
With  whom  through  life  we  walk'd, 

And  in  our  house  of  pilgrimage, 
Of  home  beyond  it  talk'd : — 

Grief  on  their  urn  may  fix  her  eyes, 
— They  spring  not  from  the  ground  ; 

Love  may  invoke  them  from  the  skies, 
— There  is  no  voice  nor  sound. 


EVENING    TIME.  463 


Fond  memory  marks  them  as  they  were, 

Stars  in  our  horoscope  ; 
But  soon  to  see  them  as  they  are, 

— That  is  our  clearest  hope. 

Not  through  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
To  waking  thought  unseal'd, 

But  in  the  uncreated  light 
Of  Deity  reveal' d. 

They  cannot  come  to  us,  but  we 

Ere  long  to  them  may  go  ; 
— That  glimpse  of  immortality 

Is  heaven  begun  below. 


EVENING  TIME. 

Zech.  xiv.  7. 

At  evening  time  let  there  be  light : — 
Life's  little  day  draws  near  its  close  ; 

Around  me  fall  the  shades  of  night, 

The  night  of  death,  the  grave's  repose ; 
To  crown  my  joys,  to  end  my  woes, 

At  evening  time  let  there  be  light. 

At  evening  time  let  there  be  light : — 
Stormy  and  dark  hath  been  my  day  ; 

Yet  rose  the  morn  benignly  bright, 

Dews,  birds,  and  flowers  cheer' d  all  the  way  ; 
Oh  for  one  sweet,  one  parting  ray  ! 

At  evening  time  let  there  be  light. 

At  evening  time  there  shall  be  light : — 

For  God  hath  said, — "  So  let  it  be  !" 
Fear,  doubt,  and  anguish,  take  their  flight, 

His  glory  now  is  risen  on  me ; 

Mine  eyes  shall  his  salvation  see : 
— 'Tis  evening  time,  and  there  is  liuht. 

Conway,  North  Wales,  1828. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  LOT  OF  THE  RIGHTEOUS. 

"  We  know  that  all  things  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love  God. 

Rom.  viii. 

Yea, — "  all  things  work  together  for  their  good  /" 

How  can  this  glorious  truth  be  understood  ? 

'Tis  like  Jehovah's  throne,  where  marvellous  light 

Hides  in  thick  darkness  from  created  sight : 

The  first-born  seraph,  trembling  while  he  sings, 

Views  its  veil'd  lustre  through  his  shadowing  wings  ; 

Or,  if  he  meets,  by  unexpected  grace, 

The  beatific  vision,  face  to  face, 

Shrinks  from  perfection  which  no  eye  can  see, 

Entranced  in  the  abyss  of  Deity. 

Yea, — "all  things  work  together  for  their  good!" 
How  shall  the  mystery  be  understood  ? 

From  man's  primeval  curse  are  these  set  free, 
Sin  slain,  death  swallow'd  up  in  victory  ? 
The  body  from  corruption  so  refined, 
'Tis  but  the  immortal  vesture  of  the  mind  ? 
The  mind  from  folly  so  to  wisdom  won, 
'Tis  a  pure  sunbeam  of  the  eternal  sun  ? 

Ah  !  no,  no  ; — all  that  troubles  life  is  theirs, 
Hard  toil,  sharp  suffering,  slow-consuming  cares ; 
To  mourn  and  weep  ;  want  raiment,  food,  and  rest, 
Brood  o'er  the  unutter'd  anguish  of  the  breast ; 
To  love,  to  hope,  desire,  possess,  in  vain ; 
Wrestle  with  weakness,  weariness,  and  pain, 
Struggle  with  fell  disease  from  breath  to  breath, 
And  every  moment  die  a  moment's  death. 

This  is  their  portion,  this  the  common  lot ; 
But  they  have  sorrows  which  the  world  knows  not : 
— Their  conflicts  with  that  world,  its  fair,  false  joys, 
Ensnaring  riches  and  delusive  toys, 
Its  love,  its  hatred  ;  its  neglect  and  scorn ; 
With  self-abhorrence  harder  to  be  borne ; 


THE    LOT    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS.  465 

The  pangs  of  conscience,  when  God's  holy  law, 

Through  Sinai's  thunders,  strikes  them  dumb  with  awe ; 

Passions  disorder'd,  when  insane  desires 

Blow  the  rank  embers  of  unhallow'd  fires  ; 

Evils  that  lurk  in  ambush  at  the  heart, 

And  shoot  their  arrows  thence  through  every  part ; 

Harsh  roots  of  bitterness,  light  seeds  of  sin, 

Oft  springing  up,  and  stirring  strife  within ; 

Pride,  like  the  serpent,  vaunting  to  deceive, 

As  with  his  subtilty  beguiling  Eve ; 

Ambition,  like  the  great  red  dragon,  hurl'd, 

Sheer  from  heaven's  battlements  to  this  low  world, 

Boundless  in  rage,  as  limited  in  power, 

Ramping  abroad,  and  roaring  to  devour : 

— These,  which  blithe  worldlings  laugh  at  and  contemn, 

Are  worse  than  famine,  sword,  and  fire  to  them. 

Nor  these  alone,  for  neither  few  nor  small 
The  trials  rising  from  their  holy  call : 
— The  Spirit's  searching,  proving,  cleansing  flames  ; 
Duty's  demands,  the  Gospel's  sovereign  claims  ; 
Stern  self-denial  counting  all  things  loss 
For  Christ,  and  daily  taking  up  the  cross; 
The  broken  heart,  or  heart  that  will  not  break, 
That  aches  not,  or  that  cannot  cease  to  ache  ; 
Doubts  and  misgivings,  lest  when  storms  are  past, 
They  make  sad  shipwreck  of  the  faith  at  last : 
— These,  and  a  thousand  forms  of  fear  and  shame, 
Bosom-temptations,  that  have  not  a  name, 
But  have  a  nature,  felt  through  flesh  and  bone, 
Through  soul  and  spirit, — felt  by  them  alone  ; 
— These,  these  the  Christian  pilgrims  sore  distress, 
Like  thorns  and  briers  of  the  wilderness ; 
These  keep  them  humble,  keep  them  in  the  path, 
As  those  that  flee  from  everlasting  wrath. 

Yet,  while  their  hearts  and  hopes  are  fix'd  above, 
As  those  who  lean  on  everlasting  love, 
On  faithfulness,  which,  though  heaven's  pillars  bend, 
And  earth's  base  fail,  uphold  them  to  the  end  ; — 


466  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

By  them,  by  them  alone  'tis  understood, 
How  all  things  work  together  for  their  good. 
Would'st  thou  too  understand  ? — behold  I  show 
The  perfect  way, — Love  God,  and  thou  shah  know. 


A  BENEDICTION  FOR  A  BABY. 

What  blessing  shall  I  ask  for  thee, 

In  the  sweet  dawn  of  infancy  ? 

— That,  which  our  Saviour,  at  his  birth, 

Brought  down  with  Him  from  heaven  to  earth. 

What  next,  in  childhood's  April  years 
Of  sunbeam  smiles  and  rainbow  tears  ? 
— That,  which  in  Him  all  eyes  might  trace, 
To  grow  in  wisdom  and  in  grace. 

What  in  the  wayward  path  of  youth, 
Where  falsehood  walks  abroad  as  truth  ? 
— By  that  good  Spirit  to  be  led, 
Which  John  saw  resting  on  his  head. 

What,  in  temptation's  wilderness, 
When  wants  assail,  and  fears  oppress  ? 
— To  wield  like  Him  the  Scripture-sword, 
And  vanquish  Satan  by  "the  word." 

What,  in  the  labour,  pain,  and  strife, 
Combats  and  cares  of  daily  life  ? 
— In  his  cross-bearing  steps  to  tread, 
Who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head. 

What,  in  the  agony  of  heart, 
When  foes  rush  in,  and  friends  depart  ? 
— To  pray  like  Him,  the  Holy  One, 
"  Father,  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 

What,  in  the  bitterness  of  death, 
When  the  last  sigh  cuts  the  last  breath  1 


EVENING    SONG.  4C7 


— Like  Him  your  spirit  to  commend, 
And  up  to  paradise  ascend. 

What  in  the  grave,  and  in  that  hour, 
When  even  the  grave  shall  lose  its  power  ? 
— Like  Him,  your  rest  awhile  to  take ; 
Then  at  the  trumpet's  sound  awake, 
Him  as  He  is  in  heaven  to  see, 
And  as  He  is,  yourself  to  be. 

1831. 


EVENING  SONG% 

FOR    THE     SABBATH    DAY. 


Millions  within  thy  courts  have  met, 
Millions  this  day  before  thee  bow'd ; 

Their  faces  Zion-ward  were  set, 

Vows  with  their  lips  to  thee  they  vow'd : 

But  Thou,  soul-searching  God  !  hast  known 

The  hearts  of  all  that  bent  the  knee, 
And  hast  accepted  those  alone, 

In  spirit  and  truth  that  worshipp'd  Thee. 
People  of  many  a  tribe  and  tongue, 

Men  of  strange  colours,  climates,  lands, 
Have  heard  thy  truth,  thy  glory  sung, 

And  ofTer'd  prayer  with  holy  hands. 
Still,  as  the  light  of  morning  broke 

O'er  island,  continent,  or  deep, 
Thy  far-spread  family  awoke, 

Sabbath  all  round  the  world  to  keep. 

From  east  to  west,  the  sun  survey 'd, 
From  north  to  south,  adoring  throngs  ; 

And  still,  where  evening  stretch'd  her  shade, 
The  stars  came  forth  to  hear  their  songs. 

Harmonious  as  the  winds  and  seas, 

In  halcyon  hours,  when  storms  are  flown, 


468  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Arose  earth's  Babel  languages, 
In  pure  accordance  to  thy  throne. 

Not  angel-trumpets  sound  more  clear, 
Not  elders'  harps,  nor  seraphs'  lays, 

Yield  sweeter  music  to  thine  ear 

Than  humble  prayer  and  thankful  praise. 

And  not  a  prayer,  a  tear,  a  sigh, 

Hath  fail'd  this  day  some  suit  to  gain : 

— To  those  in  trouble  Thou  wert  nigh ; 
Not  one  hath  sought  thy  face  in  vain. 

Thy  poor  we^e  bountifully  fed, 

Thy  chasten'd  sons  have  kiss'd  the  rod, 

Thy  mourners  have  been  comforted, 

The  pure  in  heart  have  seen  their  God. 

Yet  one  prayer  more  ; — and  be  it  one, 
In  which  both  heaven  and  earth  accord ; 

— Fulfil  thy  promise  to  thy  Son, 
Let  all  that  breathe  call  Jesus  Lord ! 


A  WEDDING  WISH. 

TO   MR.    AND   MRS.    H. 

The  cynosure  of  midnight  skies 

Appears  but  one  to  seamen's  eyes, 

Yet  twain  there  are, 

And  each  a  star, 

Perhaps  a  sun : — 

May  you,  my  Friends,  reverse  the  view, 

And  while  on  earth  you  look  like  Two, 

From  heaven  be  seen  as  One  ; 

Yea,  like  that  polar  symbol  be 

A  double  star  of  constancy.* 


*  The  polar  star,  seen  through  a  powerful  telescope,  appears  to  be  two,  very 
near  together. 


NOTES  TO  VOL.  II. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Page  293. 

>  In  November,  1825,  when  many  of  my  friends  and  neighbours 
honoured  me  with  a  public  entertainment,  on  retiring  from  my  long  labours 
among  them,  as  owner  and  editor  of  a  local  Journal,  (see  the  general 
Preface  to  these  Volumes,)  there  were  others,  especially  ladies,  who 
could  not  conveniently  join  in  the  festivities  of  a  dinner-table,  but  who 
wished  to  show  me  some  token  of  kindness  on  the  occasion.  By  these, 
a  few  weeks  afterwards,  I  was  presented  with  a  handsome  silver  ink- 
stand, of  home  manufacture,  for  myself,  and  two  hundred  sovereigns  to- 
wards the  expense  of  renewing  a  Christian  mission  by  the  United  Bre- 
thren (or  Moravians)  in  the  West  Indian  Island  of  Tobago,  which  had 
been  begun  by  my  parents  in  the  year  1789.  The  troubles  of  the 
French  Revolution  soon  afterwards  having  reached  that  colony,  the 
work  was  abandoned  in  the  following  year,  and  my  father  was  com- 
pelled to  take  refuge  in  Barbadoes,  where  he  had  been  previously  sta- 
tioned as  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  peace  to  the  Negro  slaves.  Before 
his  flight,  my  mother  had  been  released  from  sharing  his  toils  and  suf- 
ferings on  earth,  and  her  bereaved  partner  had  deposited  her  remains, 
to  wait  the  resurrection  of  the  just,  in  the  little  garden  attached  to  their 
temporary  habitation,  there  being  no  Protestant  place  for  interment  in 
the  island : — thus  taking  possession,  though  "  hoping  against  hope,"  of 
the  land  where  he  had  sojourned  with  her  as  a  stranger  for  a  few 
months  only ; — like  the  Patriarch  Abraham,  when  he  bought  the  cave 
of  Machpelah  from  the  children  of  Heth,  to  bury  his  Sarah  in,  and  by 
that  earnest  of  his  contract  secure  the  promised  Canaan  to  his  posterity 
through  many  generations,  when  he  had  as  yet  «  none  inheritance  in 
it ;  no,  not  so  much  as  to  set  his  foot  on." 

During  the  war  with  England  which  ensued,  Tobago  fell  into  the 
hands  of  our  countrymen,  and  has  been  held  ever  since  by  the  British 
Crown.  My  father,  soon  after  his  return  to  Barbadoes,  entered  into  his 
rest ;  and  for  thirty-five  years  foilowing,  the  station  in  the  former  island, 

~~ 40  ~~469~ 


470  NOTES    TO    VOL.  II. 


where  he  had  broken  ground  only,  remained  unoccupied  for  the  pur- 
pose to  which  it  had  been  consecrated.  But  Mr.  Hamilton,  the  gentle- 
man at  whose  invitation,  and  under  whose  direct  patronage,  the  experi- 
ment of  the  mission  on  his  estate  had  been  undertaken  by  my  parents, 
never  to  the  end  of  his  own  life  lost  sight  of  that  object ;  and  at  his 
death  he  bequeathed  a  considerable  legacy  for  its  promotion,  should 
the  Brethren  at  a  future  period  be  emboldened  to  resume  their  evan- 
gelical labours  there.  What  the  sum  left  by  Mr.  Hamilton  might  be> 
I  cannot  now  recollect,  but  I  have  been  informed,  that  it  was  so  well 
administered  by  his  representatives,  that,  when  the  mission  was  re-com- 
menced on  the  reserved  spot,  that  fund  amounted  to  a  thousand  pounds. 
To  this  my  benefactors  added  the  two  hundred  pounds,  which  they  had 
raised  to  gratify  me  by  a  proof  of  their  esteem,  the  most  humbling  and 
yet  the  most  exalting  that  could  be  devised, — namely,  by  stipulating 
that  their  bounty  should  be  appropriated  to  that  sacred  service,  in  which 
both  my  parents  had  laid  down  their  lives ;  accompanied  by  an  earnest 
request,  that  the  settlement,  about  to  be  formed  in  the  field  of  their  last 
labours,  should  be  called  by  the  name  which  they  bore.  This  was 
readily  granted  by  the  authorities  of  the  Brethren's  Church,  the  El- 
der's conference  at  Herrnhut,  in  Germany,  who  direct  the  ecclesiastical 
affairs  of  the  body,  at  home  and  abroad,  from  synod  to  synod.  The 
mission  thus  revived  in  1 825  has  gradually  increased ;  and,  under  the 
name  of  "  Montgomery,"  with  the  blessing  of  God  upon  the  preaching 
of  the  Gospel  by  his  servants  there,  may  it  perpetuate,  to  the  end  of 
time,  the  memory  of  those  sainted  relatives  who  left  that  name  to  me ! 
October  12,  1840. 

Page  320. 

2  Henry  Cornelius  Agrippa,  of  Nettesheim,  counsellor  to  Charles  V. 
Emperor  of  Germany, — the  author  of  "  Occult  Philosophy,"  and  other 
profound  works, — is  said  to  have  shown  to  the  Earl  of  Surrey  the  image 
of  his  mistress  Geraldine  in  a  magical  mirror. 

Page  415. 

3  This  anticipation  has  been  accomplished.  The  adjacent  plantation 
has  rapidly  grown  up ;  the  ground  has  been  beautifully  laid  out ;  and, 
in  1835,  a  conspicuous  monument  was  erected,  by  public  subscription, 
on  the  spot  where  three  hundred  and  thirty-nine  bodies,  out  of  upwards 
of  four  hundred  victims  of  the  cholera,  were  interred, — to  commemorate 
the  said  removal  of  the  sufferers  from  among  the  living,  and  their 
strange  insulation  after  death,  within  that  humble  enclosure.  The 
shaft  is  triangular,  diminishing  in  stories  from  the  base  to  the  summit, 
which  was  originally  surmounted  by  a  plain  cross  of  proportionate  ele- 


NOTES    TO    VOL.  II.  471 


vation.  Unfortunately,  in  the  hurricane  of  January  the  7th,  1839,  one 
third  of  the  whole  was  thrown  down.  It  has  subsequently  been  re- 
paired, and  crowned  with  a  less  graceful  form  of  cross,  by  which,  how- 
ever, the  tapering  structure  will  be  less  liable  to  injury  from  elemental 
violence. 

The  two  following  Sonnets  were  composed  on  visiting  the  scene  of 
dilapidation,  in  February  of  the  same  year. 


Thou  tempest-broken  column !  still  stand  on  ; 
More  fit  memorial  of  the  untimely  dead, 
Than  when  the  cross  upon  thy  summit  shed 
A  halo  round  this  Golgotha ; — 'tis  gone, 
And  now  the  earnest  eye,  where  late  it  shone, 
Is  rapt  through  vague  infinity  instead, 
Up  the  blue  sky,  receding  over  head, 
Less  and  less  seen  the  longer  look'd  upon. 

Thus,  where  the  fragments  of  thy  pinnacle 
Lie  at  thy  base,  as  lie  within  this  plot 
The  bones  of  buried  mortals, — while  I  dwell 
On  where  and  what  may  be  the  spirit's  lot, 
Thought  falls  like  night  on  my  bewilder'd  mind, — 
The  more  I  search  the  more  I  feel  I'm  blind. 

ir. 

Yet  there  is  Hope,  thou  storm-struck  monument ! 
Stand  on,  though  half  thy  glory  be  laid  low 
By  an  unseen  and  instantaneous  blow  : 
For,  as  the  wind,  which  thee  asunder  rent, 
Came  none  knew  whence,  and  none  knew  whither  went, 
So  the  plague  smote  the  slain  around  thee, — so 
Surprised  its  victims ;  and,  with  Wo!  wo!  wo! 
Hundreds,  unwarn'd,  to  sudden  judgment  sent 

Not  for  the  dead,  ye  living !  but  the  unborn, 
O  let  the  symbol  of  redeeming  Love 
Again  this  renovated  shaft  adorn, 
And  point  from  death  below  to  life  above, 
That  all,  who  here  sin's  bitter  wages  see, 
May  on  tliis  mount  remember  Calvary  ! 


